Demolition Lovers
by empathapathique
Summary: Award winning story on LJ! Words didn’t mean anything. Only a man who was absolutely sure of what he wanted—or was far too comfortable where he was—could tell a woman that she was the only woman he’d ever love then run off to bed another. DHr.
1. Part One

**Title:** Demolition Lovers 1/3  
**Author:** Empath Apathique  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling. No profit is being made.  
**Rating:** R  
**Warnings:** Very bad language that girls are supposedly not supposed to use, and allusions to lots and lots of hot monkey sex.

**Summary:** Words didn't mean anything. Only a man who was absolutely sure of what he wanted—or was far too comfortable where he was—could tell a woman that she was the only woman he'd ever love then run off to bed another.

**Note:** Edited and reposted 1/15/08. Don't worry, this story is finished. I'm working to get it to a place where I'm not embarrassed that people read it.

- - - - - - - -

She really shouldn't have stayed the night with him.

He wasn't awake yet. She could tell by the even, measured breaths that danced against her forehead. But Draco had never been an exceptionally hard sleeper, and given that she wasn't one for keeping still—no matter _how_ comfortable she was—all her shifting was bound to wake him sooner or later.

She was lying as close to him as possible without being completely atop of him. She stretched, extending her arms and legs as far as she could for a few seconds before sighing contentedly. She ran her fingers up his arms as she brought them back to their previous place, giggling a bit when she felt him shiver. He grumbled in his sleep, and the arm he had wrapped around her waist tightened reflexively.

Correction: Draco was a _very_ light sleeper. It took very little to wake him, and he rarely got very good sleep because of it. At work, she often heard him grumbling about the damn Muggle cars alarms out on the street or Orion, his cat, scratching at the door, his face the picture of tired annoyance as he poured more sugar into his morning brew. Hermione had learned better than to tease him about it. Draco didn't develop a sense of humor until half past two. At least.

She never woke him up on purpose. As she'd said, Draco had the temperament of Blast-ended skrewt before noon; no one wanted to talk to that. She woke him up because of a variety of reasons, from her fidgeting to her lack of ability to smoothly remove herself from the bed without making enough noise to wake the entire building. She couldn't help either; she'd always been a helpless fidgeter, and something about spending the night with Draco Malfoy always made her bleary-eyed and uncoordinated—completely unsuited for stealth operations such as sneaking out unnoticed by one's sleeping lover.

Hermione sighed again, closing her eyes to escape the angry glare of the sun. She should get up, she thought. Judging by the amount of light entering the room, it was pretty late. They would both be late for work, and she told herself that she needed to run back to her flat for a new set of robes before she went in.

Well, that wasn't completely true. Draco kept a set for her in his closet, washed and pressed and ready to wear for situations such as these. She just wanted to get the hell out of there before he woke up and started in on her with his usual 'morning after' questions—'_Is this it? Are you finally ready?' _—fixing her with one of his accusatory stares when she said exactly what he didn't want to hear.

Not that running away would do her much good. They worked at the same office—he on the fifth floor and she on the tenth—and they were bound to see each other sooner or later. He would usually make the first move, despite how out of character it was for him. He was tired, he would say, and he just wanted all this fooling around to end so they could actually be in a real freaking relationship with one another.

That didn't mean that he was nice about it.

He would stomp into her office at around nine to glare at her and call her the same name he'd been calling her for the past year: a self-righteous Gryffindor tease who was scared of commitment.

And—as usual—she'd point out to him that his statement was a bit of an oxymoron; 'scared' wasn't a typical adjective one would use to describe a former Gryffindor. If she was feeling particularly daring—or angry, for the matter—she'd bring up the fact that _she_ had been married before; when had _he_ ever committed himself to another person completely?

If she said the former, he'd simply roll his eyes at her. If she said the latter, however, he'd give her this look that said she knew quite clearly when he'd dedicated himself to another person completely. She wouldn't say anything, and he'd get this look that plainly said he wanted to strangle her. He wouldn't.

After either, he'd march away from her in the same petulant manner he did whenever he didn't get his way. He'd been doing it since he was five.

_Then_ she'd see him later.

The Walk was supposed to make her go after him, though Hermione never did. Not at first, at least. She'd let him sit in his office, scribbling angrily away at his reports as he cursed her to the pits of hell for her stubbornness for a few hours before she went to see him. She'd show up at his office at about noon, bringing takeaway from his favorite restaurant—which was a _Muggle_ place, something she teased him endlessly about—for the both of them and easily clear his desk for lunch. He'd glare and answer her questions snippily, but at the end of the hour, they'd always be laughing and joking as if nothing had happened at all.

And they'd be cool for a few days, weeks. They'd smile, laugh, joke together; take lunch, visit gallery openings, and see shows—all the while behaving as if nothing were wrong at all. Nothing would _be_ wrong—not yet. But then he'd seduce her, or she'd seduce him, and she'd find herself in the same exact situation another morning—lying twisted around him in his bed and wishing that she hadn't gone home with him.

Nothing ever changed.

It was a bit of a show they both put on, she thought, something that made them both feel comfortable. They were at a point in their lives where they'd literally already gone through hell together. They were trying something safe now, something new. She knew that the last thing he wanted to do on those 'mornings after' was walk away from her. He wanted to yell at her, scream at her—shake her until he forced a bit of his logic in her head. But he had done that already. It had been more than a year ago, way, way back in the beginning when they first decided to try this 'new' thing and he'd realized that he didn't want to try it at all. He'd finally realized what he wanted from her—_with_ her. It was too late though, and now he had to wait on her.

It drove him positively insane, the waiting, and Hermione knew it.

She had no doubt that he was authentically upset those times he walked away from her; however, she believed that falling into an old, familiar behavior pattern made things easier for him. Made the waiting less painful.

She had always made a point of always doing exactly what he _hadn't_ want her to do. He knew it, and she knew it. It was one of the many predictable things about their relationship—her need to defy him. But for once, in this tiny, big thing called their relationship, she made sure she did _exactly_ as he'd said. Time be damned—a contract was a contract. What he'd said over ten years ago when they'd signed it back in sixth year was still the rule. The one time Hermione had given Draco Malfoy his shot, he had missed the hoop completely. He was going to have to steal the ball from her in order to get another chance.

And Hermione wasn't going to be releasing that ball any time soon. He'd have to wait until she took her shot and try to grab the rebound. Quite frankly, she liked having control over their relationship. She had bled and sweat and _cried_ for this control; she'd earned it.

Besides, he _owed_ this to her—whether he knew it or not. Screw the fact that he wasn't _eating_ and wasn't _sleeping_ and couldn't function. She'd do _what_ she wanted, _when_ she wanted. She wasn't ready yet, and he was just going to have to deal with her evil doings until she was.

- - - - - - - -

Hermione pressed her face against his neck. He smelled like sweat and sex and him, and she relished it. She'd rest for just a little while longer, she told herself. She closed her eyes, shifting a bit to find the comfortable position she'd been in before she awoke.

The arm around her waist tightened again suddenly, and Hermione's movements stilled. Ah, so he was awake already. Blast.

He was saying something, though she couldn't hear him. He was talking into her hair, and if Hermione couldn't comb through it, she was pretty sure she couldn't hear his muffled words through it either. She smiled.

"Not to interrupt you or anything, sweetheart, but you _do_ know that I can't hear you, right?"

He grumbled tiredly, shifting his face away from her hair. "I _said_ that you couldn't stay still if your life depended on it."

She laughed.

"Go back to sleep," he told her.

She moved her face from his neck. Entirely too much light was entering the room for them to have time for another doze. "It's late…"

"Go back to sleep."

So, of course, she didn't go back to sleep.

- - - - - - - -

Draco Malfoy was an opinionated clot, and had a lot to say about the goings on in Hermione's life. He was the only person she knew that she could be herself around _and_ get intelligent conversation out of, and he knew it. Thus, the cocky bastard felt she should listen to him. And really, Hermione did. She listened to every single thing that Draco told her; took notes sometimes even. She just rarely did as he said.

She always did what he _didn't_ want her to do. Well, not _always_—she wasn't _that_ predictable—but still. These rebellions usually happened after especially heated arguments—which were plentiful between them—and could be for reasons as inconsequential as matching an argyle print top with a plaid skirt, to advocating that informational seminars about the Wizarding world be made available to the families of Muggleborn children.

They argued about a lot of things—her defiant attitude included. He said that when he told her not to do something, it was for her own good—not because he wanted to 'rule over' her, as she claimed. She argued that she was a grown woman and could darn well decide what was 'good' for her on her own.

She'd remind him that nothing bad had come out of her mismatching the patterns on her skirt and top.

He'd give her a dry look and tell her that something _had_ when she'd advocated for the stupid seminars. She'd received hate mail and threats from pushy purebloods for months. Her nearly deadly dance with a Mister Stephen Rosier—who'd tried most ardently to strangle her to death a few days after the Ministry had approved her proposal—went unmentioned. Draco didn't like to talk about that.

Hermione would roll her eyes and remind him that things had turned out fine in the end; that was all that mattered.

He'd get snippy and bring up Terry Boot—tell her how right he'd been about that git, and how she'd ignored him and married him anyway. Granted, his biggest formal opposition to their union for the longest time had been that her name would be "Hermione Boot." It was only later, when he realized that she was serious about the relationship, that he had warned her that she would regret it later. On every applicable occasion, he made a point of telling her he'd given her ample warning; that she had completely ignored his observations about Boot's character—or, rather, _lack of it_—and had gone through with the union because she was a disagreeable chit who went against him every chance she could. She'd spent nearly a year of her life emotionally miserable as a result.

Hermione wouldn't reply. She didn't like talking about Terry Boot. At _all_.

They'd argue for awhile longer, call each other names—possibly throw things or cast hexes. It was a constant battle to get the other to scream 'uncle'—or, better yet, 'you're right.' She'd bring up this, he'd bring up that. A surefire way to get her riled up was to bring up her failed marriage. And to get _his_ knickers in a twist… well. All she had to do was bring up that night she'd touched in him in that very dark place that all men said they _never_ wanted to be touched—but squealed like a girl and came like a horse when they were. He'd thrown a slipper at her head the last time she'd brought that up. She'd had to duck behind his couch so it wouldn't hit her in the head.

Things would always be okay by the end of the day, though. The bed was an excellent mediator.

Hermione acted on the belief that he usually told her not to do something because he thought her too rash and impulsive—too _Gryffindor_—to make intelligent decisions. But he was wrong. She wanted what she wanted, and she tried her damndest to make sure she got it. She didn't know why he complained, anyway. He usually enjoyed the fruits of her labor.

Like with the poorly matched outfit; she'd felt like such a kinky schoolgirl when she'd put it on that she had forgone knickers. There was no way in _hell_ he'd be able to say that he hadn't had a blast that afternoon. She'd gone to his office, sat on his desk, and started to diddle herself right there in front of him.

Or when the bill for the seminars for Muggleborn parents was passed—they hadn't left his bed the entire weekend.

She was woman enough to admit that he'd been right about Terry Boot—Mrs. Boot was a name she'd never go by _again_—but still, Hermione didn't like to talk about that. Besides, as far as she could tell, Draco had profited greatly from her unhappy marriage. It'd made him realize that she was what he wanted.

And really, she didn't have to explain the whole finger-in-Draco's-special-place thing, did she? He'd shagged her so hard that night she hadn't been able to walk straight for days.

- - - - - - - -

Ten minutes passed.

"_Why_ are you still awake?" Draco asked, his voice garbled by sleep.

"I'm _thinking_," she said.

"Sweet Merlin, _no_."

She poked him in the ribs, and he grunted. "Why don't _you_ go back to sleep?"

"I can't go back to sleep until you do."

"And why not?"

"Because the only time you stop bloody fidgeting is when you're asleep."

Well, he had her there. She artfully changed the subject. "Isn't it time for us to get up? It must be fairly late." She made to sit up but he pulled her back down onto his chest.

"It's not time to get up."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see the bleeding clock, Granger. Now go back to sleep."

"I _can't_."

"Yes, you can. Just close your eyes and think happy thoughts. Or sleepy thoughts. Or whatever. Just go to sleep. _Please_."

"How about this: _you_ go back to sleep—"

"I told you already, I can't go back to sleep until you—"

"You're not listening to me."

"I don't have to. I know what you're going to say."

"I thought we'd established long ago that assumptions are bad for the soul."

He grunted, tightening his hold on her. "Well, then speak, woman."

"Don't cut me off this time."

"_Talk_."

"As I was saying," she said smartly, knowing that he was probably rolling his eyes, "I think that you should go back to sleep. I promise I'll be still. And then you'll be asleep and I'll be awake and we'll both be happy."

He snorted. "Hardly."

"Oh?"

"You know what'll make me happy."

Hermione didn't respond.

- - - - - - - -

So she was a little commitment-phobic. Could anyone blame her? Her relationships with men didn't go well. She already had one failed marriage under her belt, and her friendships with Harry and Ron had dissolved into nothingness over the years. The only male childhood friend she addressed now without awkwardness was Neville. But Nevy was queer, so Hermione didn't think he counted.

She didn't need another ruined relationship.

At least that's what she told herself. She and Draco had already pushed each other to their limits—farther, even. Things had been broken in places that she didn't even know they _had_ places, but they were still here now. Just barely, but they were here. Together, in a sense, and yet apart in so many more.

But they were trying something now. It was something different, something new—something _good_ for them. They had agreed to get out of that tormenting cycle they'd been in before, and their efforts hadn't been in vain. In a sense. They were out of that old cycle, though this new, unfamiliar one they were in now held startling similarities to the one they'd been in before.

They were still sleeping with each other, and they _both_ still wanted something more. Only, now Draco was admitting it openly, while she sometimes let it slip that she did as well. She hadn't exactly been open with it back before the Big Muck Up either, but they'd both known how she felt back then, what she'd wanted.

She wanted to tell him how she felt, and, sometimes, she did. It was just hard to always be open with someone who had broken your heart. Besides, it was all about timing. Rushing into something would mess everything up completely. She was doing this for both of their good.

She and Draco had been shagging each other off and on since their sixth year at Hogwarts, and they'd decided that it wouldn't be serious from the very beginning. Granted, their relationship had developed greatly since then, and Hermione could now quite honestly say that Draco was the most important thing in her life and had been for years. But still. They'd signed a contract back then, and with all the ways they'd messed everything up by _not_ sticking to it over the years, Hermione thought it was about time that they did.

Because that's how they came to their original agreement; with a contract. Before the very first time they'd slept together, Hermione had drawn up a contract using clear, explicit language describing what they could do and could not do. She'd made Draco sign it in blood. And honestly, she hadn't gotten any new contracts from him. Only loaded questions and looks that clearly said she should know what was going on without him having to say it. Because to him, the loaded questions said it all. She was a smart girl. He expected her to _get it_.

And of course she knew what he meant, what he wanted. But as she'd said before, she was commitment-phobic. She didn't want to destroy a perfectly good friendship and quite convenient—and pleasurable—fuckship with a man who meant the world to her just because he wanted her to be the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning.

Okay, okay, that was bullshit. She _was_ commitment-phobic, but really, she was just fucking with him. A little, at least. And she'd _earned _this. She'd given Draco his chance, and he'd bungled it completely. Her deepest apologies if she wasn't willing to place her heart on a platter for him to stomp on it yet again. And it sounded so callous to say it that way, but in the end, that's what it came down to. She loved him—God help her, she loved him—but she couldn't just forget the past in exchange for the life with him he was offering her now. It didn't work like that.

The whole heart-breaking thing was something else thing Draco didn't like to talk about, and Hermione didn't bring it up often, because she didn't like to talk about it either. It bothered him to talk about it, and she wasn't so much of a bitch to constantly shove it in his face whenever he asked her why they couldn't be together now.

But he was trying, and Hermione knew that alone counted for a lot. He did constantly ask her when, and why not, and when the hell she'd be ready to be with him, but still. He was being as patient as she'd ever seen—as patient as a Malfoy could be—and she deeply appreciated his effort. They had promised each other that they would try being friends—real, honest, true friends whose relationship didn't revolve around sex. And that had gone astonishingly well for awhile. They had been close before, but things went shockingly well between the two of them now. But Draco wanted more. Not _just sex_ more, either. They went weeks without sleeping together sometimes, and while they both tended to get a little cranky when they were deprived, they didn't do it _just because_ anymore. They meant more to each other than that, and Draco was intent on proving to her that his love for her was based on something entirely different then her skills in the sack.

What made the situation so ridiculous was the fact that he'd actually had her before, and he'd completely thrown her away. And now that she was completely commitment-phobic, he wanted her back. It was actually quite funny—in that depraved, sardonic way that Hermione found things funny.

Things could never be easy with them.

She wasn't sure why he wanted to jump into anything with her anyway. Well, duh, he loved her, but still. She'd hurt him before, too. He said she was romanticizing the situation when she said that she had broken his heart as well, but she knew that she had. In a different way than he'd broken hers, but she had. He should've been wanting to take his time, too.

She and Draco had known each other for more than fifteen years, had been in someway intimate for the past ten. They were compadres, partners in arm. He understood her in a way that no one—Harry, Ron, Ginny, _Terry_—ever had. It was apparent to her that this should be more than enough reason for her to jump head first into a relationship with him. She gave this man near every single part of her heart and soul—loved him more than she could properly express with words regardless of her extensive vocabulary in four different languages.

He wanted her—loved her—too. And it wasn't one of those things that she had to turn her head to the side and squint to see. He told her—not often, but he did.

And that was where things could have been easy. She loved him, he loved her. But of course things couldn't flow in the natural, easy way that Hermione had expected. It had been a rollercoaster ride completely.

Draco had never been the kind of guy who said those three words often. Even now, when he knew unquestioningly of exactly how he felt and what exactly he wanted—_her_—he didn't say it often. He knew it earned him extra points when he said it, and that it completely made her day when he did, but he also knew better than to think that burying her under exclamations of his undying love would win her over. It was more than that, and they both knew it.

Words didn't mean anything. He'd proven that. In good ways—as he expressed how he felt about her with looks and touches and the way he said her name as he released inside of her—and, unfortunately, in bad ways. Only a man who was absolutely sure of what he wanted—or was far too comfortable where he was—could tell a woman that she was the only woman he'd ever love then run off to bed another.

As she'd said, he'd fucked it up completely.

Hermione knew that he loved her, and that things—him included—were different now. They were better. Still, a part of her couldn't commit to their relationship entirely until she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was what he wanted—for forever. She didn't care how long it took to find out, and if he loved her as he said he did, he wouldn't care either.

More than a year had passed since they'd come to the resolution to try and work things out between them. He'd given her space at first, sticking solely to the "friend" things, but the magnetic attraction between them could not be ignored forever.

Nevertheless, they had a contract, damnet; signed it on a warm spring day in sixth year when they decided that they wanted each other _that way_. She'd thought about breaking it before only to have it completely blow up in her face, and she wasn't going to even _contemplate_ breaking it again until she was absolutely sure of where they both stood. And he could tell her until he turned blue in the face that she was the only one he wanted, but after all they had gone through together, Hermione wouldn't _dare_ allow herself to just give in to him. It would be as if the pain had never existed at all.

Besides, in the contract that they'd signed that day in sixth year, it had been written in clear and concise terms that their association was _not_—and would not _be_—one of the romantic sort. Draco had reminded her of this fact for years afterwards. Even when they'd become friends—_good_ friends—years later, he'd _still_ reminded her.

She realized now that he'd been trying to remind himself—as if saying the words aloud to her would stop him from breaking the contract in his own mind.

- - - - - - - -

His hands were beautiful. They were large and rough and strong, and created the most delicious friction as they slid across her skin. Hermione sighed happily, refusing the urge to mew in contentment as Draco's hands stroked up and down her back. If he continued doing _that_, then she was bound to fall back to sleep. Only… "Why are you still awake?" she asked him suddenly.

"Because you're horrible at keeping promises." He seemed fully awake now, though his voice still held that morning gruffness that made her insides flutter.

"What are you talking about?" she said drowsily. "I've been perfectly still this entire time."

"That's the problem—you actually kept the promise."

"What are you—" She rolled her eyes when she realized what he was saying. "You're an idiot."

"No, _you're_ an idiot."

"Shut up." She tried to poke him again, but the effort was halfhearted, and he grabbed her hand before she could get away with it.

"Now, now, dear," he said mockingly. "You know what the doctor said. Violence isn't the way to solve your problems."

"Oh, be quiet."

He chuckled.

She began tracing patterns on his bare chest with her fingers. "Why are you still awake?"

"What are you thinking about?" he asked as he watched her.

"Are you avoiding my question?"

"Are you avoiding mine?"

"I asked you first."

"Humor me."

She sighed. "I'm just… thinking."

"What about?"

"Us."

"The good things, I hope."

She snorted. "Of course not."

"That's rather pessimistic of you."

She laughed. "Are there any good things about us?" she asked jokingly.

He was quiet for a long moment. "There's now."

- - - - - - - -

It wasn't until that night in their third year at Uni that he'd stopped saying it—stopped telling her that there were to be no feelings involved. It had been late—_very_ late—and she'd gone to his room for a quick romp in the sheets. Things had been strained between them for the past month or so, and she hadn't talked to him in over a week, ever since they'd had _another_ big fight. She was always grouchy and irritable when they weren't talking, and that carried over into her other relationships. Case in point, she'd broken up with her latest boyfriend only a few hours before knocking on his door.

She was so frustrated—mentally, emotionally, _sexually_—that she hadn't even _cared_ that they weren't on good terms. She wanted him, and she was going to have him. She hadn't been able to admit yet that she needed him to keep her balanced, but after that night, it hit her, and hit her _hard_.

He opened the door for her without a word. The only indication of his surprise at her being there was the lift of his brows. She didn't know what to say to him so she didn't say anything at all; simply began unbuttoning her blouse and taking off her shoes. He stopped her then, his hand applying gentle yet firm pressure to her wrist as he leveled her with a look she'd never seen from him before. Hermione didn't wasted time thinking about it. She was in one of her 'moods,' as Draco liked to call them, and she could be shockingly obtuse then, focused only on what she wanted and nothing else. What she wanted at that moment was Draco, and Merlin be damned if she allowed herself to become distracted by the stupid look on his stupidly pretty face.

It had gone over her head completely.

If she were able to see it now, she'd probably describe it as uncertainty with a mix of reluctance, and fear. But that was all speculation.

She merely looked back at him, her own expression angry and defiant as she asked him what was wrong.

He asked her why she was there.

She told him that he already knew.

He stared at her.

She told him that she needed to be fucked into unconsciousness.

He looked at her sourly, and then told her that she had a boyfriend for that.

She got angry then. She was frustrated and upset and in one of her moods and didn't _need_ this shit from him. She continued taking off her shirt. He grabbed her again, angry now himself. She released all her fury in the glare she sent him.

She asked him what his problem was.

He told her that she—_they_—couldn't continue what they were doing when they _both_ had people they were seeing.

She laughed at him then, bitter. She told him that who they were seeing didn't matter. She quoted—word for word—the line he'd said to her that very first night they'd shagged—'Our relationship isn't one of the romantic sort. Let's keep it that way.'

And, before she knew it, he was on her, kissing, biting, and licking with a ferocity previously nonexistent. Their couplings had always been exciting, but that night… that night had been frightening.

He told her that he loved her, and she fell asleep crying in his arms. She whispered the sentiments back to him over and over in her sleep.

He had said it first, and he never failed to remind her of that fact now. He liked to gloat about the fact that she loved him so much that she told him when she was unconscious. Hermione never responded.

He never mentioned the stupid contract again.

- - - - - - - -

"I don't think we're all that bad."

Hermione blinked, startled awake but his sudden comment. "Pardon?"

"I don't think we're all that bad," he repeated. "I mean, we have our moments when we completely hate each other, and the fights can get pretty violent, but—" He stopped abruptly when he heard her chuckling. "What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, still laughing.

"Granger…"

"Come on, Draco, this is us—you and me. Of course you don't think we're that bad."

"I'm serious."

Hermione smiled. "I know."

"I think that we're great."

She laughed again. "We are."

"Better than most of the couples we know."

"But we aren't a couple."

"No, we aren't. But still."

"Yeah."

"Do you think we're that bad?" he asked quietly. She stiffened in his arms, and there was a very long pause. "Granger."

As custom, she dutifully avoided the question. "I think we're going to be late to work."

- - - - - - - -

After that night, everything changed. Not in obvious, open ways, but they both knew that things were different. They both knew that they loved each other.

Nevertheless, they went on for a year after Uni without getting together. Neither dated much in the time following the night; however, they didn't sat down and actually discussed them being together, either. They weren't ready yet.

She had been studying overbroad in a specialization school in France when it happened. He'd shown up at her flat three months in and told her that he'd taken an apprenticeship under a veteran French curse-breaker and needed a place to stay.

She hadn't commented on how fortuitous it was that he'd found a six month apprenticeship that started exactly three months after she began what was to be a nine month stint in the school. Which, by the way, put them returning to England at the exact same time. She also hadn't commented on the fact that Draco had never expressed any inclination towards the field of curse breaking whatsoever, or the fact that he had no aptitude for it either.

She'd simply smiled at him and said that she only had one bedroom. He'd given her the sexiest grin ever and told her that arrangements could be made. Hermione counted the six months that followed as some of the best in her life. They were filled with good food, good company, and good sex. She'd been with the love of her life—the man of her dreams—and it'd actually seemed as if they were going somewhere together. They hadn't given each other official terms or anything, but they'd both known what they were, what they meant to one another. They had lived, breathed and grown together those months. Hermione had thought it was just the beginning of what they'd be doing for the rest of their lives.

- - - - - - - - -

"What time is it?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll never let me go back to sleep if you know."

"Is it that late?" She tried to get up, but he stopped her again. "Draco…"

"Shh… You promised you'd spend the day with me last night, remember?"

She lifted her head to look him in the face. The firm hold he had around her back only allowed her to see the planes of his cheeks. "_When?_"

"Oh, I can recall quite a few occasions. First, when I was on top. Then, when you're leg was—"

She fell back down onto his chest with a huff. "Ha, ha," she said, "very funny."

"I know."

"You're lying to me."

"I know. I meant to ask you, though. Got a little preoccupied with more… _pressing_ issues, you see. Besides, I hardly think you would've approved me stopping in the middle of our activities in order to ask you if you'd be willing to spend the day with me. But my apologies, milady, for the inconvenience."

Hermione smiled. "We're still late for work."

"Then we'll be late."

"Draco…"

"Do you _not_ want to spend the day with me?"

She was taken aback for a moment by the question. He'd never asked her that before, and she got a feeling he wasn't just talking about the day. "Don't you have an important meeting with that big shot American today?" she said quickly, changing the subject yet again.

"I do."

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for it?"

"Probably."

"Draco."

"He'll reschedule."

"You _know_ he won't."

"Well, then, I'll be ever spared the torture that is his company."

"You'll be fired!" she exclaimed.

"I won't," he told her. He bent his head and kissed her hair. "I want to spend the day with you."

- - - - - - - -

It was so easy to call it stupid. To call _her_—what she was _doing_—stupid.

Everyone whispered about them at work—the men and women alike. It was a well-known fact that they were good friends, and equally as known that they were sleeping with one another. He was a good man; she was a good woman. Why they hadn't run to the alter already was a question on everyone's lips.

He promised her the world, the sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky. He promised her that he couldn't promise her that he would never hurt her again, but that he would never hurt her in the way he had before. He wouldn't cheat.

But it just wasn't that simple.

A few months ago, Draco had taken her out to lunch at a little side restaurant in Diagon Alley. It had been one of their days; she was lonely and desperate for human touch—_his_ touch—and he had been happy to accommodate. She told herself that she never expected anything of him, however deep down, she knew she did. And it was wrong—so very, very wrong. She knew he got his hopes up when she was like that, that every time, he thought _that_ day could finally be the day she came home with him for good. It never was, and she always felt terrible afterwards. She was leading him on and she knew it. But that would be her mistake, her sin. It bothered her, but she needed what she needed, and it was something he was willing to give.

Being with Draco had Hermione in a constant battle with herself. One side of her wanted to live solely in the moment, while the other only thought of protecting herself for the future, knowing what had happened last time when she hadn't.

That hadn't been overly touchy that afternoon. Only, her hand had never left his, and her foot was busy caressing his leg under the table the entire meal. They _had_ been making eyes at each other, and sexual tension was high, and—

Okay, okay, it had been bad. They'd even planned to rush back to the Ministry for a quick shag on his desk.

Draco had gotten up to take a quick trip to the restroom after the meal, whispering into her ear that he didn't need anything impeding his performance before brushing a kiss against her cheek and rushing to the wash. Hermione had been so busy grinning to herself—and rubbing her thighs together—that she hadn't even noticed someone come up to her until they called her name.

She'd blinked a few times to focus, a shocked _oh_ escaping her lips before she plastered on a polite smile for Molly Weasley.

"Hello, Hermione."

She hadn't seen Mrs. Weasley in over a year. She was older, and quite a few pounds heavier, but still had the same shock red hair—now with a bit of gray in the front—and open, happy face that had been a unwavering presence in Hermione's childhood.

The last time she had seen Molly Weasley had been a few weeks after her wedding, when they had bumped into each other at the Wednesday farmer's market held off a side street of Diagon Alley. They'd only chatted briefly then, asking of each other's health and what was new before claiming of other engagements and rushing off their separate ways. It was now the norm for them now. The end of her relations with Ron had brought a slow yet steady end to those with the rest of the family. She hardly knew how to behave around the woman any longer.

"Good day, Mrs. Weasley. It's a… pleasure seeing you here." Hermione blushed at her hesitation.

Molly smiled at her kindly. "It's a shock, I know. May I?" She looked pointedly at Draco's vacant seat.

"Oh, of course. Go ahead."

The stout woman took a moment to get situated in the seat, then looked at Hermione and smiled again. "So, dear, how are you?"

"Well," Hermione answered, relaxing as the conversation continued. She mentally breathed a sigh of relief that the conversation wasn't half as painful as she initially expected it to be. "And yourself?"

"Oh, you know me, 'Mione. I'm fine as long as there are children around."

Hermione nodded. "You must be doing wonderfully, then." It was a well-known fact that the Weasley clan had _a lot_ of little ones.

"Yes. With Ron's two boys, and Bill's five, and Charlie's four, and oh! There's a complete Quidditch team between the twins! Ginny and Harry have three of their own and have you heard? Ginny's expecting again. Her first set of twins."

"That's wonderful."

"It is. We were out shopping together this afternoon. Dropped in here for a quick bite."

"Oh? I didn't notice you."

"We're seated a bit to the back of the place. I saw you when you came in, but I didn't realize it was you. As soon as I did, though, I came right over to say hello."

"Thank you," Hermione said earnestly. "I haven't seen you in ages."

"Yes, dear. It's been entirely too long. You should pop by the house sometime. You know we still hold our weekly family dinner on Sunday evenings—six sharp!"

Hermione only smiled. She wouldn't be attending, and they both knew it.

"Is Ginny still here?"

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips, obviously annoyed. "The silly girl. Said she was too 'tired' to walk over here. The nerve! As if she hasn't known you for—"

"Oh, it's okay, Mrs. Weasley!" she quickly assured the woman. "That's just… that's just the way things are now."

"A bunch of foolishness, if you ask me. You kids have known each other for far too long to be behaving like this!"

Again, Hermione only smiled.

"Ron tells me it's none of my business. I looked after the whole lot of you while you were back at school; I find everything to do with you my business."

"Are they all well?"

"As fine as can be expected with the full litters they have."

Hermione giggled. "I'm glad."

"But what about you, Missy?" she asked then, quickly changing the topic of discussion to Hermione's personal life. The brunette was a bit startled at first, then berated herself for forgetting about Molly Weasley's forwardness. "When are you going to settle down? Twenty-seven is a smidgen too old to still be single."

"I already have," she said jokingly. "It just didn't end well."

Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes. "Really, Hermione. I search through the post everyday for a wedding invitation from you. Even read the gossip section in the _Prophet_, hoping they'll have some sort of informal announcement there. You know how those women of the gossip pages love to discuss _you_."

Hermione silently agreed. She was a constant topic of discussion in the _Prophet's_ gossip pages. But announcement? "What announcement?" Hermione looked at her as if she'd grown a second head right before her eyes. "Mrs. Weasley, who on earth am I supposed to be getting married to _now_?"

"Why, Draco Malfoy, of course."

Hermione had been taking a sip of her drink when the redhead said this, and she nearly choked in surprise. "_What_?"

"Oh, don't you play coy with me, Hermione. If I was a betting woman, I'd have put my money on the two of you settling down together years ago."

"You'd have been wrong."

"Perhaps _then_, but not now, dear. Everyone knows about the two of you. Ron still grumbles about it when there are stories about the two of you in the paper. Besides, I do have eyes, duckie. I saw the two of you here this afternoon."

Hermione blushed again.

"I-it's nothing like that," she said quickly. "We're just friends."

The woman snorted. "And I'm a petite woman." Hermione didn't respond, and Mrs. Weasley gave her a long, searching look. "What's the problem, dear?" she asked, openly concerned. "He hasn't asked you to marry him yet?"

"Mrs. Weasley, we aren't even _dating_. I think it's safe to assume that marriage is pretty much out of the question."

The redhead pursed her lips again, a scowl coming over her aging features. "Darling, if it's one of _those_ kinds of relationships, I hardly think it's healthy for you to stay. If he doesn't even want to commit with you to _begin_ with—" She huffed. "He's not one to stick around with at all."

"Oh, it's nothing like that, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione assured her.

"Oh?" She arched a graying red brow in question.

Hermione smiled, looking down at the tablecloth. "It's not him, it's me."

She looked confused for a moment, but then— "_Oh_."

They were both quiet for a moment.

Hermione looked up when Mrs. Weasley patted her hand. "I'd snatch him up quick if I were you, dearie."

"I know. It's… it's complicated, Mrs. Weasley."

"Men don't wait forever."

"I know."

"_He_ won't wait forever."

Hermione nodded.

Just then, Draco returned to the table. He greeted Mrs. Weasley cordially, and the two chatted for a few moments before the woman excused herself, giving Hermione a pointed look before bidding them both a good day.

"What was that all about?" Draco asked once he was seated again.

Hermione wouldn't look up at him. "Just some catching up."

That day, they did not go back to his office for a quick shag on his desk. She told him she wasn't feeling well right after they left the restaurant, and said that she would be returning home early. He didn't ask any questions; merely hugged her extra tight and long before releasing her and telling her to feel better.

Mrs. Weasley's words haunted Hermione for the rest of the day.

"_Everyone knows about the two of you."_

"_He hasn't asked you to marry him yet?"_

"_I'd snatch him up quick if I were you, dearie." _

"_He won't wait forever."_

Draco showed up at her flat that evening bearing ice cream, Scrabble, and a smile that cheered her up as soon as she saw him at the door.

He stayed the night. They didn't have sex.

What she'd said to Mrs. Weasley hadn't been a lie. It was complicated; a weird twist of lies and lives that went back for years.

Essentially, it all came down to this:

Draco Malfoy at twenty-two had not wanted to settle down.

Hermione had.

- - - - - - - -


	2. Part Two

**Title:** Demolition Lovers 2/3  
**Author**: Empath Apathique  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling. No profit is being made.  
**Rating:** R  
**Warnings:** Very bad language that girls supposedly should not use, and allusions to lots and lots of hot monkey sex.  
**Notes:** It took a very long time for me to post this chapter, and I apologize for that. No internet access absolutely _sucks. _A huge thank you to everyone who reviewed, and everyone who simply read and didn't review. I appreciate the time you all have taken out of your lives to look at my baby :)  
**Summary:** Words didn't mean anything. Only a man who was absolutely sure of what he wanted—or was far too comfortable where he was—could tell a woman that she was the only woman he'd ever love then run off to bed another.

- - - - - - - -

"Are you happy?"

"What?"

"You heard me, Draco."

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Because I am. Now, answer."

"You know I'm not happy."

"Not even a little?"

"Don't play this game with me, Hermione."

There was a pause. "I'm sorry."

"It's not okay."

"I know."

"None of this is. Not with me."

"I know."

"You know what I want."

"Yeah," she said softly. "I know."

- - - - - - - -

It was never discussed, his need to explore, but it was something they had both acknowledged—him sooner than her. He was young, rich, handsome, and intelligent. Women were throwing themselves at him left and right. It was easier to resist the lure when they were abroad in France—isolation tended to make people band closer together—however it had been nearly impossible to discount his urge to "explore" when he got back to England.

He had a great relationship with Hermione—loved her as best as he knew how—but there was always a _what if_ with him. What if there was something—_someone_—else. Something better than this.

Their relationship fell apart shortly after they returned to home.

They got an apartment flat together in a small, Muggle suburb a few minutes from London. They both found work at the Ministry; Hermione as a paper pusher in Department of Muggle Relations—which had absolutely _nothing_ to do with what she'd studied in school—and Draco as an International Relations representative. His was a job of professional wining and dining, and Draco excelled at it. They both were never home—she because she worked her bum off and he because… well, because he was kissing arse—and they hardly ever saw each other. To top it off, he began sleeping around on her; Draco was never one to let a _what if_ remain as such, and absolutely had to find out if there was anything more to life than what he already had.

He'd go to work, do his job, then go out with whomever he was negotiating with that evening; sleep with the different diplomats or, if they were male, diplomats' daughters he met, still coming home to her later that night—or early the next morning—to lay in her bed.

It hadn't gone over well with Hermione, to say the very least. Because of their ridiculous similarities and their uncanny ability to communicate with each other without saying much at all, she'd taken what he hadn't said as indication that they both wanted the same thing. They hadn't. He wanted to enjoy his life. To him, that meant messing around. She began to wonder if she truly knew him at all. But she _did_ know him, and she realized that she'd begun to let her feelings for her cloud her judgment. He loved her but she wasn't exactly sure if it was in the same way that she loved him. She was a friend—his _best_ friend—and a damn good lay. They got along wonderfully when they weren't fighting, and living together those months had proven that, despite the fantastic rows they had, or how many things were broken, they made good flat mates. He had a place to lay his head, a warm and willing body to put his _ahem_, and a little lady so in love with him that she waited on him hand and foot—no matter how much she tried to make it seem otherwise.

He was comfortable where he was, and because they'd never given each other titles or made any promises, he felt it was perfectly within his rights to sleep around on her. Only, he wasn't sleeping around, cheating. You could only sleep around on a person you were in a relationship with that you _both_ acknowledged. And the only relationship they had according to him was a friendship, fuckship. It wasn't the kind of relationship _she_ thought they had; the kind of relationship where there was one man and one woman with the possibility of joining in holy matrimony somewhere along the road.

Her pain was indescribable, but she blamed herself for that. Draco Malfoy had never promised her anything, save perhaps that he was her friend and always would be (and she'd only gotten _that_ admission when he'd been very, very drunk one night after finals their first year at Uni.) It'd hurt, but she dealt with it the only way she knew how—by sucking it up and being strong. She continued on. Only, she gave him notice that he needed to move out, claiming that she needed her space. He saw it as a lie from the beginning, though he moved out as she wished. She began dating seriously again for the first time in years, and even though there was a tangible ache in her chest whenever they met up for lunch or one of the other "friend" things that they did—they hadn't slept together since before he'd moved out—she could deal with that. She could deal with the nights she cried herself to sleep, or the mornings she had to force herself up and out of bed because she could hardly _deal_ with him not being there, because at least she still _had_ him. She couldn't even _count_ the number of women she knew who had been in love with a man who wasn't in love with them and were forced to let him ago. At least Draco was still her friend. She wanted more from him—so much more—but she could deal as long as she still had him.

It was then that she realized how much freaking _space_ he took up in her life. There was Draco, and then there was Draco. And more Draco. And more freaking Draco.

With Harry and Ron having their own lives and wives and professions, there wasn't much room left for her. They'd been growing apart for years, her relations with Draco Malfoy being one of the main reasons for it. While they were still in school, they'd thought that she and Draco were only friends and Hermione was glad for it; they would've been apoplectic if they'd know _all_ of what they were doing. Her schooling in France had pretty much killed the friendship. She hadn't talked to them in years.

She had her colleagues from work, and a few girlfriends she wasn't quite as close to as she could be, but honestly, she really didn't have any friends. Draco was all she had. She was his best friend, and he was hers. She was just in love with him, was all.

And they she met Terry Boot.

Terry was… Terry was cool. He was handsome, intelligent, and had enough of a mystery about him to keep her interested. She didn't feel for him half of what she felt for her best friend, but she reasoned that it was because she and Draco set of blaring red lights on the Compatibility Scale, and, in general, that tended to be a once in a lifetime thing.

Terry had been in their year back at Hogwarts—a Ravenclaw—though Hermione had never known or even noticed him. He'd noticed her, of course. No one was willing to admit that they didn't know who Hermione Granger was. Forget that she'd been Harry Potter's best friend—her _hair_ was an atrocity known to every man, woman, and child on the campus. He'd always thought her pretty, he claimed, though never felt he was in a position to approach her. It wasn't until the Ministry's Muggle Integration Celebration—a celebration of the advances made in blending the cultures and lessening the fear between the two groups—that he had. He had congratulated her on the award she'd received that evening for the informational seminars she'd set up a few years before for the parents of Muggleborn children. (Draco liked to say it was a clear warning sign of what shite was going to becoming of the relationship. Those seminars had brought her nothing but trouble.) They ended up talking for half the night.

Terry was an excellent conversationalist. Perhaps not as witty as Draco—and definitely lacking his smooth-as-silk tone—but Hermione genuinely enjoyed talking with him. They had common interests, and she found his job as a researcher at a pharmaceutical company in Surrey interesting. They never ran out of things to talk about on their dates, albeit they were heavy and sometimes boring things. Their conversations had the propensity to leave her fatigued with an aching head, and Hermione sometimes _longed_ for a simplistic conversation on the inane things going on in their lives at the moment without it turning into some huge, challenging debate. But Terry was not the kind of man who talked about inane things, and Hermione wasn't the kind of woman who tried to change a man. She simply dealt with his seriousness—the same way she tried to deal with his jealousy, and how completely maddening he could be when he began to whine over the tiniest of things.

Hermione hadn't spared Terry's jealousy and whiny nature much thought initially; after all, Draco possessed them in abundance no matter _how_ much he tried to deny it. But Terry Boot and Draco Malfoy were completely different men. While she had noticed all of his unattractive traits while they were dating, she hadn't seen the true monster he was until they were already married.

While Draco's jealousy was reserved to rigid posture, glares, and—if applicable—pulling her into his arms, Terry would just stand and watch the behavior that was twisting him into all sorts of odd angles, his face blank as ever. And then, later, when they were alone, he would tell her in a very calm voice that he had been offended by her actions and was very disappointed. She would try to explain that she hadn't been doing anything wrong however he would never hear anything of it. In Terry's book, simply smiling at a joke a male coworker of hers had made was considered flirting. He always accused her of errant behavior when she'd done absolutely nothing wrong, and then hold up a hand in a gesture to get her silent when she tried to explain what had happened.

And, well. No one was going to shut _Hermione Granger_ up with a hand. She'd start yelling then, and the smarmy bastard would actually have the _nerve_ to walk away from her! She'd follow him, of course—because she was Hermione Granger and if she had something to say to you, you were damn well going to listen. And you know what Terry The _Unbelievable_ Arse would do next? He'd go in their room, close the door, and _lock_ her _out_.

And damn him to hell, but he was a smart fuck. No spell she tried would unlock the damn door. She'd played around with the idea of blasting the thing down, but it was her bloody flat. She would be the one billed for charges if she destroyed it, and Hermione didn't want to give Terry the satisfaction of seeing her lose her cool in such a… _explosive_—and expensive—manner.

He was another man who thought she had no impulse control. She wanted to kill him in an entirely different way than she wanted to kill Draco.

She'd slept on the couch in the sitting room more times than she had fingers and toes before she swallowed her pride and—though it was a subconscious decision at the time—went to Draco about it.

- - - - - - - -

"Why do you want me to spend the day with you?"

"It's Valentine's Day."

She snorted. "As if you really gave a horse's arse about _that_."

He playfully smacked her on the bum, and she yelped. He tutted at her patronizingly. "Language, darling."

"Oh, _now_ you complain about my language," she grumbled. "You seemed to get off on it last night."

"Yes, well, that was last night. I don't want to hear any of that from you now."

"I fail to see the point you're trying to make."

"Are you going to talk dirty to me now?"

She snorted again. "_Definitely_ not."

"Well, then it's _definitely_ unacceptable."

Hermione laughed despite herself.

"You do realize that the longer we lie here, the later we are for work, right?"

"I already told you that I didn't care. But, from the sheer number of times you've brought up the time, I know you do."

"Of course I do."

He sighed. "Getting up, then?"

She drew in a deep breath through her nose, taking in his scent. She released it quickly, and he shivered when it blew against his neck. She smiled, and kissed the pale skin. "Not just yet."

- - - - - - - -

She blamed herself partially for what happened next.

It was a matter of pride and miscommunication. Looking back at it now… well, fine. She blamed herself completely for what happened next.

But he hadn't made it easy. In fact, he'd only made everything worse.

He was just so _sensitive_—such a freaking _girl_.

But she was a bitch. A big one. _That_ was indisputable.

- - - - - - - -

Because the blond bombshell _had_ told her she was making a big mistake by marrying Boot, Hermione hadn't initially told him about her marital problems. She had absolutely no doubt that he would be there for her—which, seriously, was what she needed. It sounded petty to call it a pride issue, but that was completely what it was about—her pride. She always had a particularly sour taste in her mouth when he was right and she wasn't, but for awhile Hermione wasn't sure if she could bear for him to be right about this. He _was_ right, but to let him _know_ it… she didn't think she could _ever_ do that. She'd avoided him dutifully after her wedding sending him quick missives that things were great and she was completely busy and would get back to him later. He'd known something was up, but Hermione didn't think he suspected that her marriage had gone down the commode shortly after she'd said "I do."

Four months into her marriage she was haggard with frustration. Five months in, she was ready to kill herself.

Besides, how were you supposed to tell the man you wanted to be with—who loved you but didn't want to be with you back—that the man he'd explicitly told you would make you miserable was, in fact, making you miserable?

Merlin, it hurt just thinking about it.

It was about more than just her pride though; it was about his. They both knew she was trying to get over him. It was nothing but sheer rotten luck that the first man she happened to pick to spend the rest of her life with was a complete and utter dud. Draco's head was already far too big as it was. If he had anything else to be smug about, it was bound to explode. And she found his head far too pretty to let that happen.

Not that she was saying that Draco delighted in her pain. Well, okay, she was saying that, bust she didn't really believe it. Not really. She knew him well enough to know that he'd be deeply concerned for her. Her wouldn't point and laugh at her until later. She was just willing to convince herself of anything to avoid talking to him.

It was just so wrong—so _unfair_. Why wouldn't she find herself a nice, pleasant loser to settle down with? Other women seemed to find them in abundance—guys they loved, but loved the security they provided more. She and Terry got on well as friends, but sweet Circe, couldn't she be romantically compatible with _more_ than one person? She'd said before that she and Draco sent off blaring red lights on the Compatibility Scale, but couldn't it be that way with someone else? Not blaring red lights again—God only granted individuals few favors in life, and between wishing for Voldemort's defeat, to get accepted into Madame Boudoir's School of Applied Transfiguration, and to always have Draco in her life (stupid, _stupid_ her. She should've wished to keep him permanently locked in her closet), she figured she'd used up all her favors with the big guy long ago—but still. "Jackpot" couldn't be the only level on the goddamn scale. Couldn't there be something else, something more subtle? Something in the middle?

If there was, either Hermione simply hadn't found her middle guy yet, or Merlin had decided to forgo making her one. Either way, she was pretty fucked.

Then, one night about five months after her wedding, she had gotten particularly pissed off after an argument between her and Terry. And she just… snapped. Terry had told her she was spending too much time at work and not enough time at home attending to her "wifely" duties. They'd slept together about four times since their honeymoon. Each time had occurred in the week directly following the holiday.

It hadn't been much of an argument. It had been more of Terry telling her something in that infuriatingly calm manner that he did and her screaming in his face. That made it sound like it was completely her fault but really, it wasn't. If you actually _heard_ the things he said to her—"Hermione, you were five minutes late today", "Hermione, my steak isn't cook fully through", "Hermione, you didn't starch and iron my breeches this week", "Hermione, are you having an affair with Neville?"—you'd understand why she was so upset with him.

She hadn't had sex in months. She absolutely couldn't stomach to sleep with the man. If she were counting back to her last _good_ shag, then… well. She hadn't had _good_ sex in over a year. For him to stand there and complain to her—the self-proclaimed sex fiend—that _he_ wasn't getting enough had sent her positively over the edge. She could've strangled him that night. She hadn't—to _hell_ with the bastards who said she and no impulse control—and in an impossibly rare occurrence, _she_ walked away from _him_.

Without even thinking, she went straight to Draco's flat. It said something about their relationship that in spite of her pain and need to keep her problems—_this_ problem—from him, she went straight to him anyway.

- - - - - - - -

"Mrs. Weasley has invited me over for tea next Wednesday afternoon."

"_What_?" she exclaimed.

"Mrs. Weasley invited me over for—"

"No, I heard you, but—_what_?"

"That's what _I_ said."

"Did you accept?"

"Of course."

Hermione groaned. "Why?"

"Because I think she's plotting against you, and I'd love any helpful hints I could get on ways to entice you into a nice, long, inescapable relationship with me."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm in that sort of relationship with you already."

"You know what I mean."

- - - - - - - -

That night—yes, shit always happened at night with them; good grief—was agonizing, to say the least. She had a key to his flat, and given that his wards were automatically configured to allow her into the dwelling, she let herself right in.

She didn't question whether or not he'd be home—it was two in the morning, but Draco was known for keeping later hours at times—or if he was busy. She didn't even question if he'd been alone or not. All she knew was that she had to get away from her husband—that she had to stop hiding the fact that she was unhappy. She needed to talk, to cry—to be held by someone who would hold her while she sobbed and ask questions later.

She needed Draco.

The entire flat was dark when she came in. Hermione didn't bother with turning on any lights. She could hear a faint murmuring coming from the direction of the bathroom, and with a single-mindedness she regretted to this day—impulsive indeed, it seemed—she'd marched straight to the door, only beginning to consider the possibility that he may have had a guest when she hard the husky tone of his voice and an undeniably feminine laugh. And, given the time of night it was, his visitor was very much into entertainment of the horizontal sort.

Hermione had walked in on Draco plenty of times before. No surface was off limits in his mind, and because she never had the decency to knock, she often found him engaged with one of his many lady friends on unorthodox places such as the kitchen table, or counter, or bathroom wall, or—her favorite—the entryway floor. He was out on the town often, however it suddenly hit her then that _he_ could get married. _He_ could find a woman he could settle down with, be with. Fuck, he could find a woman he loved more than he loved her.

It felt as if someone had shoved a knife straight through her chest. White-hot pain seared through her, and she could feel all hope she'd found in the world after she'd realized he didn't want her seep like blood out of the proverbial wound. She couldn't breath, and all she could think of was how wrong this was, of how wrong she had been.

She thought that all because he was _her_ somebody, she should automatically be his. But life—the bloody _world_—wasn't like that. Couldn't be halfway fair _at all_.

All because he set off blaring red lights on _her_ Compatibility Scale didn't mean she did the same on his. And it was such a sad realization, because mother always told her that people came in pairs; that they were lost for awhile when they were born, but when they found each other, they would know—in their hearts and souls and with every breath they took—that they were meant to be. Mother had also told her stories of brave knights and princesses throwing long flowing locks of hair out of towers for their saviors to climb up, but still. With all her heart and soul, Hermione had believed this—that Draco was the one for her.

And what fucking shit _that_ was. A woman fell in love with a man, a man fell in love with her, then man fell in love with someone else—fell in love with someone else _more_.

It was too dramatic to even be a soap opera. It had to be Hermione's life.

She remembered stumbling and bumping into a picture frame on the wall, causing it to fall and shatter. She could hear the startled gasp from Draco's female friend; could practically _feel_ his wariness from his stony silence. Hermione took a step back, the glass from the broken frame crunching under her shoe. The bathroom door opened then, and she was momentarily blinded by the light. She put her hand over her eyes and took another step back.

"Granger?" He sounded surprised, relieved, and confused all at once. Hermione squinted at him, his figure very blurry to her eyes. He was too big, too bright—the light seeming to reflect off the exposed skin of his arms and torso, off his hair. _Almost like an angel_, she thought. _Always there, but always out of reach_. Her vision clouded even further, and his image began to fade. She blinked, and it was then that she realized she was crying. "Granger, what's—?"

"I'm sorry, Draco," she said quickly, cutting him off. Her voice was strained and heavy with tears. "I didn't know you had—" She could see a dark-haired woman peek out from the bathroom door "—company." She waved tremulously at the woman, forcing herself to smile. The woman stared, and Hermione shook her head and took another step back. "I-I'll come back later." Hermione turned on her heel and started back down the hall.

She had to get away from here. She had to get away from here.

She had to get away from here—_now_.

She managed to get to the kitchen before he grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away, however she knew better than to believe that she could escape his grip. She used to take pride in the knowledge before, however now it was a very scary thing.

She'd be in the same situation with him for the rest of her life.

Oh, _God_.

Hermione could feel that stabbing pain in her chest again. Her eyes screwed shut, a pained expression coming over her face as she tried to breathe.

"Granger?" Granger, Granger, Granger. What the bloody hell did he _want_? Why wouldn't he stop saying her name?

And it wasn't even her name! Not really. He didn't feel _comfortable_ calling her "Hermione" on a day to day basis. Yeah, he sure loved her.

"Come on," he said, his voice easy and good-natured. He pulled her back towards him. She hadn't the strength to put up any resistance, and came crashing into his chest. He caught her easily. "Don't be like that. You've seen me entertaining far too many times to be shy about it now." He looked down at her with a familiar lazy grin on her lips. It seemed to drive the knife deeper into her chest and she released a pained sound. The grin disappeared from his face immediately, and he looked down at her, puzzled. "Granger?"

She tried to turn away, pull away, however he held her firmly in place. "It's fine, Draco. We can talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

He touched her cheek then, an almost horrified expression coming over his face when he realized his fingers were wet. "What happened?" he asked tersely, all traces of amusement now gone from his face, voice.

"I told you already—it's fine." She tried to pull away again, this time using more strength. She could smell his scent coming off him in waves, and it was bloody fucking intoxicating. Her need to flee increased, rising with her silly contradicting urge to just bury her face in his chest and cry until all the bad things went away.

His grip was unyielding and his eyes unreadable as they stared into her clouded brown irises. "It's him, isn't it?"

Shock raced through her like a bolt of lightning. "What are you talking about?"

She said it far too quickly for it to come off in the baffled manner she was aiming for, and, as expected, Draco wasn't convinced by her mediocre performance.

He sent her an incredulous look then released her, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair. "I knew this would happen…"

She was _really_ confused now. The possibility of him knowing what was going on suddenly dawned on her, and fear washed over her like a vat of cold water. He couldn't know—he _couldn't_. She'd never been a convincing liar, and she hadn't spent much time with him over the past months in fear that he'd be able to read the truth on her skin. But she'd made _sure_ not to let anything slip when she was around him. She'd spent hours in the mirror practicing faces and smiles and laughs and the easy statements she'd use to avoid his questions.

No, he couldn't have known. He had to be confused.

Hermione took a moment to compose herself. "I beg your pardon?"

"This—you coming here crying. I knew it would happen eventually." She felt frozen in place. Sweet Merlin, he could _know_.

Hermione could feel each individual degree her body temperature increased, sweat accumulating on her forehead and beneath her armpits as her hands grew slick with the salty liquid. Her thoughts were a repetition of exclamations to the deities above for mercy, and vaguely she recognized that she was probably in the beginning stages of a panic attack.

Draco smiled at her patiently, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing in what she assumed was supposed to be a comforting gesture. Even in her crazed state, she wanted more than the simple touch; her insides squirmed with the need to launch herself into his arms and stay there for the rest of her life.

But, oh. He was talking.

"…because things have been going smashing between you and Terry lately—"

_Wait_… Hermione blinked a few times, and her confusion returned in full force. "What?"

"—so I know this must be a shock to you. Bet you never _dreamed_ the two of you would have a disagreement in all your lives—"

"_What_?"

"—but real couples fight, Granger. You know that. You'll call him a right prat and hate him for a few hours, he'll apologize, and things will be grand for the two of you again—"

Wait, wait, wait. Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion. Was he serious? "Draco—"

"It's perfectly healthy for couples to disagree—that's what you would tell _me_ if I—"

"_Draco—"_

"—not that I would _be_ in this situation. McGonagall will let her hair down and dance the Merengue with Hagrid when _I_ barge into you're your house at two AM crying over some broad, but—"

"Merlin, Malfoy, shut up!"

"What?" he asked, feigning ignorance for a moment and then smirking at her when he couldn't any longer. "Okay, I was being patronizing. I'm sorry." She continued to look at him as if he'd just asked her if she knew the muffin man. He sighed again, serious. "I was serious about what I said, Granger. Fighting is normal for couples."

"You…" Hermione said slowly, disbelievingly. "You have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Oh?" He arched a brow in question. He could sense her hostility, and didn't seem pleased by it. "Please enlighten me then, Drippy." He reached around her to the counter and handed her a napkin. She snatched it from him angrily, and he glared at her. "Look," he said grumpily, "I know you're upset, but _you_ barged into _my_ house in the middle of the night ruining _my_ nighttime tryst with Camille. You don't have the _right_ to snatch things from me."

Hermione wiped her nose and glared at him angrily. "Oh, forgive my poor manners, Master Malfoy. I forgot that I wasn't supposed to disturb the Lord of the Now Nonexistent Manor Because Your Madman Father Blew it Up when he's having a… a _booty_ call with one of the _many_ gold digging _bints_ on his speed dial." She said the last part especially loud, hoping that Lady Camille heard her.

There was a distant gasp, and Draco looked back to the direction of the hall. He grabbed Hermione's arm and dragged her into the foyer, his eyes narrowed in anger when he finally looked at her. "Yes, and now that you've shouted loud enough to wake the bloody dead, do you mind telling me what your problem is?"

"What problem?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Granger. The problem that's brought you here at this ungodly hour of the night. I doubt it's for the same reason you _used_ to visit me at two in the morning for, seeing as you're currently chained up in your happy old shoe with Boot and I already have entertainment for the evening."

"You're despicable."

"Don't spit names at me for making assumptions—"

"That's the fucking _problem_, Malfoy. You're making an assumption. You're _always_ making assumptions."

"What can I say?" he said airily. "If it walks like a duck, and it talks like a duck—"

"You're _wrong_."

"Am I?" he rejoined heatedly. "So you're _not_ here because of a fight with Boot? You're _not_ here because things aren't how you want them to be—how they _should_ be in your eyes?"

Hermione was struck by a chord of truth in his words. "You don't understand…" It was obvious he had no idea what he was talking about, and yet he still somehow managed to get the story right anyway.

This was why he made assumptions, a voice in the back of her head told her—because he could get away with it.

"I understand perfectly, Granger. Have you forgotten how well I know you? I know that we haven't had much contact in the past months—"

Hermione took a step away from him, shaking her head at his words. "Stop." She absolutely did _not_ want to hear this. She could tell by the tone of her voice what he was getting to, and she didn't think she could bear to hear it aloud.

Yes, she'd been ignoring him.

"—what, with you being busy being married and the like—"

Yes, she'd hurt him.

"Draco, stop." His words brought back the stabbing pain from before, and she felt positively sick. She wrapped her arms around her abdomen, resisting the urge to double over.

But God, couldn't he see? Didn't he understand?

"—playing the role of the happy housewife and all that—"

She _had_ too. For the twisted reason her tortured mind came up with, he _couldn't_ know.

She took another step away from him, finding her back flush against the door as she shouted, "_Stop!_ "

"Why?" he snapped angrily, closing the gap between them. "Because I'm right? You've been avoiding me for fucking _months_, Hermione. You haven't been listening to me for _months_. I like to exist under the pretense that we _are_ still friends, and you are _going_ to listen to me now."

"Please—"

"Shut _up_, Hermione! For once in your life just shut up and _listen_ to someone!"

She made a choking sound in the back of her throat, and she realized that she was crying again.

"I know you," he told her, voice low and gruff, heavy with his anger. "I know you like I know how to read and write, tie my shoes, spell my name. I know you like my face—like I know _your_ face. I know you like _you_ know _Hogwarts: A History_, like I know Weasleys have red hair, like I know I know my father is an arse and everyone's glad he's in jail. I know the way you talk, the way you laugh; the way you bite your lip when you're nervous, and each and every sound you make when I'm driving you over the edge. My knowledge of you is engrained, natural—easy. I know you better than I know myself, and I know that you've been avoiding me for the past months because I don't fit into your new, happy life."

Her eyes went wide, and she forcefully shook her head in the negative. "That's not—"

"Shut up!" he bellowed, cutting off her words. "Why won't you shut up? Why aren't you _listening_, Hermione?"

His voice seemed to vibrate through her, turning her insides to something she could no longer recognize. She momentarily shrank away from him in an uncharacteristic show of fear.

His face was pink with exertion, and his eyes nearly black with rage. She could honestly say that in all the time she'd known him, she'd never seen him this angry. She didn't know what she was thinking, or what he was thinking, or what the hell was going anymore. All she knew was that he needed to calm down.

"Draco, please." She reached out to him, her fingers brushing softly against his cheek. "Please calm down."

He slapped her hand away from his face, stepping away from her. "Draco—" She matched his steps and reached out to touch him again. His eyes flashed and he pushed her away from him, her back hitting the door with a i thud /i that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet house. Her teeth rattled together from the impact.

"Don't touch me!"

She couldn't define exactly how she was feeling at the moment. It went beyond shock, beyond fear. This had never happened before. He—he had never—

Hermione only realized that she'd stopped crying when she felt tears prickle in her eyes again. She stubbornly blinked them away. They would get her no where right now.

"Don't," he said again. "Just don't."

"Why not?" she asked meekly, still leaned against the door. The spot on her head that had made contact with the door began to throb.

"Because I'm tired, Granger. I'm fucking tired."

"What are you talking about?"

He looked at her incredulously. "_Why?_" he said angrily—seemingly to himself—as he turned and walked away from her. "_Why_ don't you listen to me?"

"I _was_ listening to you!"

He turned and stalked back towards her then. "Then _why_ don't you know?" he said. "_Why_ do you need to ask?" She didn't respond. "I _know_ you, Granger. I fucking _know_ you. You decide to forget about me while you gallop off into the sunset with your gallant fucking husband, but at the first sign of trouble, you come running back again. The only fucking reason you're here now is because you're having problems with your fucking nobody husband."

She was so shocked she couldn't even form a reply. Tears were streaming freely down at her face as she stared at him, defeated. "Just… stop," she said miserably. "Please, Draco. Stop."

"You've never been able to deal with things on your own," he continued, heedless of her pleas. He was telling the truth, she knew, and his words cut straight through her. Only her sense of pride kept her from hanging her head in shame. "You're as ignorant as a schoolgirl when it comes to relationships. You've run to me with every problem you've _ever_ had with a man, expecting me to _hold_ you and to _touch_ you and to magically make all the shit in your life disappear." He looked at her as if he'd just realized she had an abnormal growth coming out of her nose, and didn't want to be associated with her because she did. "That's what you want now, isn't it?"

_Yes_, she wanted to scream. _Yes!_ "No."

"You're a liar." He said it with so much conviction it scared her.

"So what?" she snapped. "So _what_!"

"Don't you get it? This is what I _mean_, Granger. It's always the same with you. I'm done. I won't let you use me again."

And, whoa. Wait just a second. Everything—her heart, the world, i time /i —seemed to stop, and Hermione had to replay his statement over in her mind again to be sure if she'd heard him correctly. Even after she did, she wasn't sure that she'd heard him right. There was a very long pause before she responded. "Excuse me?" she said, her expression, voice, stance—everything—screaming of her bemusement.

"You heard me," he repeated lowly. "I _won't_ let you _use_ me. My purpose in life isn't to be at your beck and call, dropping everything because you need a quick shag to make you forget that your life is shite."

"Use you?" she repeated, flabbergasted. "_Use_ you? Are you—what are you—" She was so angry she could barely _breathe_, let alone articulate what she was thinking.

It was as if the Gates of Hell had just been opened. Something snapped inside of her; something broke—something _died_. And, just like that, she stopped caring. About him, and her, and this stupid, fucked up association they tried to call a friendship. She was beyond how could yous, how dare yous. She was beyond pain, and beyond tears.

At that moment, she honestly felt—_believed_—with every fiber of her being that she hated him.

"Are you _serious_? You've used me for _years_, Malfoy, and I _never_ said a word about it!"

"Oh, don't come at me with that, Granger! Our arrangement was mutually beneficial. _You_ were the one who came to me whenever you fucked things up with your boyfriend at the time and expected a shag to make it better."

"As if you didn't come to me as well!"

"_I_ never pretended to be in real relationships. My partners knew that it was an open relationship. You led your guys on."

"You're a liar!"

"You're a tease!"

"You—" she said pointing at him, looking at him as if she hadn't known him nearly all her life. "All you care about—all you've _ever_ cared about—is sex!"

"This is telling me a lot about our relationship if _that_ is coming from my best friend."

"That's my _point_, Malfoy. I _am_ your best friend. You're a narcissistic pillock who only cares about his pretty face and where he's getting it from next. You'll never find anyone good enough—that you'll _love_ enough."

"Oh, that's rich coming from a woman who has no grip over her emotions whatsoever, has cheated on every single boyfriend she's ever had, and couldn't make a good decision if it stood in her face and shouted 'pick me'!"

"Screw you!"

"Oh, sod off, Hermione." He turned his back on her and began walking away again. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but don't you _dare_ think that I'll stand here and let you insult me because _you've_ had a fight with your beloved and life suddenly isn't the happy place you make it out to be."

"You don't get it _at all_!" she shouted at his back.

"No," he said, stalking back towards her and getting in her face. "I _do_ get it. I get _everything_. That's the fucking problem."

She wasn't the least bit intimidated by his nearness this time, her fear of him having evaporated with any concern she may have had for his person. "If you understood half of what you thought you did, Malfoy, you wouldn't be the arsehole you are."

"Maybe I _like_ being that arsehole."

She shook her head in disgust. "Just like your father…"

Even though she wanted nothing more to hurt him, she knew it was a low blow. But she _had_ to say it. She needed to. Because when people are hurt and angry they have a need to make someone else just as hurt and angry as they are.

His body went rigid, and she could see the vein in his forehead practically _throbbing_ with restrained rage. "Get out," he seethed.

"Gladly."

She had never heard a door slam quite as loudly in her entire life.

- - - - - - - -

TBC


	3. Part Three

**Title:** Demolition Lovers 1/3  
**Author:** Empath Apathique  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling. No profit is being made.  
**Rating:** R  
**Warnings:** Very bad language that girls are supposedly not supposed to use, and allusions to lots and lots of hot monkey sex.

**Summary:** Words didn't mean anything. Only a man who was absolutely sure of what he wanted—or was far too comfortable where he was—could tell a woman that she was the only woman he'd ever love then run off to bed another.

**Note:** I am SO sorry that it has taken me so long to upload the final chapter of Demolition Lovers here. For awhile, I didn't upload it because I hadn't had the time to uncode the story. I'd left a note in one of the other chapters that it was finished on my LJ, which I assumed would lead everyone there to finish it, until I'd found the time to post the last chapter here. I am very sorry for the wait. It has been nearly two years. This story has been _finished_ for two years. I can't apologize enough for those who I made wait. I hope that this chapter appeases your appetite, though, given how long it's been, you may want to go back and reread the story, to really fall into everything that's going on. Look for the note at the end.

- - - - - - - - -

"Why do you hate Valentine's Day?" she asked him suddenly.

"Because it's stupid."

"That's not a good enough reason."

"It is for me."

"Yes, well, it isn't for _me_."

"Nothing is a good enough reason for you. You probably want me to make icky color-coded charts with two-dimensional house elves drawn onto the paper that answer your questions when you don't understand something."

"I do not," she said, feigning offense. There was a pause. "Well, I wouldn't want the house elves. They have enough to do as it is."

"Ha!"

"Shut up."

"Don't get angry with _me_ because I can read you like a book."

She rolled her eyes. "You still didn't answer my question."

"I did. I'll repeat myself in case you don't remember: it's stupid."

"I want the other answer?"

"Which 'other' answer?"

"The real one."

He laughed despite himself. "Why do you _like_ Valentine's Day?"

"I don't know… I just do. Sometimes, I feel as if Valentine's Day is the only day people actually pretend to care about one another. And really, it's nice when someone does something special for you on this day. I know today isn't any different than any other day really, but still." She sighed. "I just… I just do."

He was quiet for a moment, his breathing deep as he slowly ran his hands up and down her thighs. "Will you do something special for me today?"

"Perhaps," she told him cryptically.

"Oh really?" he asked amusedly. He rolled then, bringing himself atop of her. It was the first time she'd seen his face all morning. His hair was tousled and his eyes dark. He was absolutely breathtaking. "Did you have something specific in mind already?"

She lifted one of her legs to wrap around his back, pulling him closer to her. The amused look left his eyes and his they darkened even further, the beginnings of lust. She recognized the look well. She reached up and took his face in her hands, one of her hands holding his face while the other brushed softly against the delicate skin of his cheeks. She kissed him.

"Will this be a repeat of last night's activities, then?"

She smiled. "We'll see."

- - - - - - - -

Draco had a flat approximately twenty minutes away from a station off the direct line of The Tube. Hermione ran there in nine.

She'd always been an athletic girl, and she excelled at running. Ron had tried to tell her that running was not a sport, but that was just because Quidditch was all anyone cared about in the Wizarding world. She'd responded that, where _she_ was from, Quidditch wasn't even a sport, and that had been the end of that. She often went jogging in the morning; usually two to three times a week as the weather and work permitted; far more often if she were stressed. She enjoyed the rush of wind against her face, the burning in her thighs and calves, the furious pumping of her heart as she continued to push herself forward. It was delightfully exhausting, and if it didn't help her to clear her head of her problems, it helped her to pass into a much needed deep sleep so she could forget them in her rest.

It was part of the reason why she ran so fast that night. The other part was simply because she needed to get away from him, and from all the things he'd said that had positively rattled her brain.

At first, she'd thought he was chasing her, hearing the exclamation of her name behind her as his phantom presence pressed heavily against her mind. She'd pushed herself past what she'd grown accustomed to calling her limit and had practically fallen down the stairs of the station in her haste to get away, forgoing even the fare as she rushed onto a waiting train.

He hadn't followed her.

The realization hit her hard after she'd collapsed, a quivering mess, onto the seat, her muscles screaming with pain. She'd looked through the train windows, expecting to see him; however, he wasn't there. She sat, stunned, trying to figure out why it hurt so much that he wasn't.

Only one other person was in the train car with her—a homeless man buried beneath a mountain of old, secondhand clothing. She didn't know which line she was on, or where she was going. She didn't recognize the names of any of the stops, and before she knew it, she was bawling uncontrollably. She couldn't focus enough to Apparate away, and that fact alone made her cry harder. She wrapped her arms around herself and cried, not even caring how utterly stupid and unsafe it was to be on the train so late—witch or no. She passed out in her seat a short while later.

She had a fitful though dreamless sleep, the soft shaking of her shoulder waking her hours later. Her head hurt something awful and she felt as if she'd been slapped in the mouth. She groaned, the night before coming back to her in bits and pieces. She could see Terry's face, then Draco's. _He'd been so angry_, she thought, and something inside her clenched. Oh, Merlin, what had _happened_ between them?

It wasn't until she began to shift around that she realized she was not, in fact, lying on a train seat, and that there was a soft, warm bed beneath her aching form. Panic began to boil inside her and she made to sit up. Two hands gently pushed her down onto the bed.

"Hold on there now, dear. Don't sit up so fast."

Hermione opened her eyes, wincing from the bright light in the room. Everything was blurry for a moment, a mix of light and undistinguished lines. A figure was standing over her, and she squinted her eyes to focus. A kindly looking old mediwitch was standing over her, looking down at her with a concerned expression.

"Don't excite yourself, Mrs. Boot," the older woman said. "You've had a rough night."

She let out a relieved breath as she recognized that she was at St. Mungo's. A few years previously, a program was initiated to locate distressed wizards and witches in Muggle-heavy areas in order to reduce the attacks made on Muggles by frightened magic folk. Once a 'distressed' person was found, an Auror would be immediately dispatched to assist them.

Hermione happened to be one of those 'distressed' persons.

She was located and 'assisted,' then brought to St. Mungo's, as was protocol. Her husband was informed of her admittance to the hospital, and Hermione barely managed to get two words out her mouth before he made his presence known, rising from his seat at the other side of the room and walking to her bedside. He told her that he'd been worried about her, and that she was to never give him such a fright again. Hermione had stared at him in a half-dazed state, too out of it to form a reply. He kissed her forehead and then told her he was going to go himself some lunch.

To her horror, she had begun to cry as soon as he left.

The mediwitch tried to console her, however all her efforts were in vain. Then, the door to her room opened, and Nymphadora Lupin _nèe_ Tonks stepped into the room. Hermione had ended up on an empty train in Chigwell, where Auror Tonks—Hermione could never call the woman otherwise—lived with her husband and two children. Because it was so close to her home, the bubbly klutz was sent to assist Hermione, though the older woman had no idea at the time of whom exactly she would be assisting. When she did find out, she'd taken her straight away to St. Mungo's, calling in a few favors to ensure that she received the utmost privacy. The press had always loved to create stories about Hermione Granger, and everyone knew it. Information that she'd been found passed out on a train and had been hospitalized afterwards wouldn't have been good for her reputation.

Hermione was eternally grateful to her friend for the measures she'd taken on her behalf.

Tonks let Hermione rest awhile longer to regain a little strength. They talked animatedly over a late lunch. She and Tonks were still friends, though Hermione didn't realize how much they'd drifted part until she talked with her again. She missed her.

Other than the friendly concern Tonks had for Hermione, however, her reason for being in that room was clear: she needed to find out what had happened for the Auror report. When she finally got around to asking Hermione what had happened to her the night before, Hermione had closed up immediately, refusing to answer. She hadn't been the victim of any unlawful act, but she still felt the need to keep her lips firmly sealed on the issue.

Tonks seemed to remember how stubborn Hermione could be then, and sighed in defeat after only five minutes of questioning. She told her that she should report it if she had been assaulted in any kind of way regardless of how close she may have been to her attacker. Tonks seemed to think that Terry had done something to her, and Hermione had to resist the urge to laugh outright in the woman's face. He may have been an arse, but she wholly believed that Terry knew better than to put his hands on her.

But, then again, maybe he didn't. Terry wasn't verbally abusive, though he _was_ overly protective and distrustful of her. He questioned her every action, wanted to know the who, what, when, where, why, and how of everything she did. He was always calm when he questioned her, even though she openly yelled in his face and called him a few distinctly unladylike things. But perhaps she hadn't pushed him to his limit yet. No one relatively normal could remain perfectly blank after near daily fights with their spouse. She knew he was an unbalanced wanker and subconsciously, she had been waiting for him to snap. But why? So she could see a spark of fire—of _passion_—in his eyes?

So she could see in his dull green orbs what she saw in Draco's?

And oh, God, she nearly retched when she realized what was going on. She'd always been an argumentative person, but this trait had come to define her interactions with her husband. She had always known that he was nothing like Draco, but holy hell, that was what she'd been trying to do. She'd been trying to push him, bombarding him with hateful words and insults to find chinks in that carefully blank armor he wore when he addressed her. She'd been trying to get him to snap.

She'd been trying to get him to be Draco.

She knew how to make that man snap—every knob to twist, button to push, and lever to pull to get him to completely lose control. But Terry _wasn't_ Draco Malfoy. Was nothing like him, really. It was stupid of her to even try, consciously or not.

And what would she do when Terry _did_ finally snap? It was bound to happen eventually. Men could take only so much from a woman before they reached their breaking points. Even seemingly indifferent tossers like him had limits. And Hermione seriously doubted she would have seen anything in Terry's eyes that would even vaguely remind her of something she'd seen in Draco's.

There was something just beneath the surface of Terry's uninterested demeanor—something dangerous. Unbalanced was the perfect word for him. The only way he maintained such a calm air was because he fought to have everything balanced out in his head. It was the reason why he always had to know everywhere she was, everything she was doing; why he accused her of this and that, and why he always walked away from her when things got especially intense. She was the only thing in his life that he couldn't control, the one thing that kept him off kilter. It was why she hadn't noticed any of his weird personality quirks while they were dating. She hadn't been living and breathing in the same place as him then; he hadn't felt the need to control her yet.

Terry could never let lose, be free. He'd lose his freaking mind when he did.

And he'd fucking _kill_ her if she was around.

Hermione wasn't even aware that she was hyperventilating until Tonks began to shake her, and she looked up at the woman with glassy brown eyes, wide and fear as a cornered doe.

She didn't remember what happened next. When she woke up that night, Tonks was still at her bedside. She informed her that her husband had come back to check up on her a few hours ago, and upon being told that she wouldn't be leaving the hospital until the next day, had left.

Tonks asked her _again_ if anything had happened to her and still Hermione refused to respond. She told her that it was best to talk about these sorts of things—that it would help her work through it, get over it.

Talking about it, Tonks said, would help her admit to herself that it had happened—would help her to be honest with herself. But Hermione already recognized that it had happened. She didn't need to relive everything by talking about it. Tonks left shortly afterwards, leaving Hermione with an open invitation to come by whenever she liked, be it for a small chat or if she needed a shoulder to cry on.

"Besides," she told her, forcefully cheerful. "We have a spare bedroom, and I'm willing to bet that the bed is a bit more comfortable than a plastic bench on a train."

- - - - - - - -

He was on top of her, kissing her neck and making the biggest love bite imaginable on her skin. Her eyes were shut tight and she was squirming against him in need. He knew how to drive her absolutely wild, and that spot… oh, _God_. Soft mews escaped her lips as he made her near delirious with pleasure. But… no. They couldn't do this now.

"Draco…" she called softly.

"Mmm?"

"What… what time is it?"

He stopped for a moment, raised his head and looked down at her in amusement. "You're thinking too much, I think."

She opened her eyes, looking up at him with a both dazed and puzzled expression. "What are you—?"

He ground his hips into hers then, and her back arched off the bed as she moaned involuntarily. He smiled; kissed her forehead, her cheeks. "Can you hear yourself?" She didn't respond, and he ground his hips into her again. She nodded quickly. "That's all I want to hear from you from now on, okay?"

"But—"

But he was inside her then, and the rest of her sentence trailed off into a mix of incoherent squeals and moans as he continued to drive into her.

"But what, sweetheart?" he panted.

She didn't respond.

- - - - - - - -

She went home from the hospital early the next morning. Terry was already at work, though Hermione was trying very hard not to think about him or the realization she'd had about their relationship the day before. Being alone in the flat gave her the chills, and she decided then that she could no longer stay there. She was through with this—this _lying_. Whatever she'd felt for Terry before had now dissolved into nothingness. She was torturing the both of them by continuing the relationship. She started to pack her things. Tonks had said she needed to be honest with herself, and now she was.

She was in love with her best friend. She always had been, and she probably always would be.

She knew he loved her, but she wasn't sure of if he'd be willing to talk to her again after last night.

Because she fucking admitted it—it'd been all her fault. She'd gone there for the exact reason why he said she'd gone there. She'd wanted the comfort of his touch—_sex_—and he knew it.

For all that she lamented him breaking her heart with the multitude of women he slept around with, she'd probably broken his back in turn every single time she'd gone to him in the middle of the night, wanting him to drive her into unconsciousness, into forgetting.

He was rude and edgy, but so unbelievably sensitive that it wrenched her heart to think of what she'd done to him. She'd hurt him impossibly; hurt him every time she went to him for a quick shag when she was in a relationship with another man, and hurt him when she'd purposely avoided him for the past five months. Knowing him as she did, it was completely natural for him to treat her the way he had that night. He'd thought that she didn't care.

And how messed up was _this_. He thought that she didn't care, when all the while she thought that he care didn't either. It was so tragic, so heartbreaking; so undeniably _them_.

He hadn't gone after her that night, and he wouldn't. Not yet. She wouldn't see him again for weeks.

She'd sent nearly all of her things to a storage service in Diagon Alley and was shrinking her suitcase to fit into her purse when Terry came home. He looked around the virtually empty flat and asked her what was going on. He had the same blank look on his face as always, and his voice was still in that calm, easy tone that used to drive her out of her mind. It made her visibly uneasy now, and she had to resist the urge to Apparate straight out of the flat.

She told him that she was leaving.

He asked her why.

She told him that she didn't love him.

He didn't respond.

A few minutes went by in silence. Hermione busied herself with gathering the rest of her belongings and she could feel his eyes watching her every movement.

He asked her who it was that she loved, and Hermione started noticeably.

He asked her if it was Neville—if that was where she'd been that night, before they found her on the train.

Hermione laughed at him. Laughed at him so hard her sides ached and tears fell from the corners of her eyes. Seeing him there—in _her_ flat—asking her if she was having an affair with Sweet as Sugar Neville was just the icing on the freaking cake.

Dear Lord, this man was her _husband_. What had she been _thinking_?

She could find _loads_ of other men who would be better for her than this tosser. She had only found one so far, but there were bound to be others out there. There _had_ to be. What the hell had she been _doing_ with Terry? There were other, better fish in the sea. Hell, did she really even _need_ a man anyway?

And then, like a brick to the face, it hit her.

She'd grown dependent upon men.

She searched frantically for a time in her life when she hadn't had a man in her life—for a time where she hadn't defined herself by her relationship with a male. As a child, she'd spent most of the time with her cousin Melvin, enjoying the adventurous life of a riotous tomboy. Hogwarts had ended their relationship, and all alone in a strange new world with nothing to guide her but her beloved copy of _Hogwarts: A History_, she hadn't a clue who she was.

As a teen, she'd found herself almost exclusively with Harry and Ron, becoming their 'brain.' She fell into their shadows as she tried to maintain platonic relationships with both, all the while growing into a confused young woman with her own feminine problems that absolutely refused to be ignored.

After Harry and Ron, there had been Draco, who'd paid homage to her womanhood with an excessive amount of sex. She'd been sexy then. She'd been beautiful—wanted. A host of boyfriends that hardly meant a chipped nail had followed after her riotous fuckship with the blond began.

And really, it was such a pity that he was the first one to _really_ see her in that light. The Fates had never made life easy for anyone, but it had to be some sick joke on their behalf that two people obviously bound for great love would begin their story with a relationship based entirely on sex. And _everyone_ knew that relationships that were based on sex didn't work out.

After her realization that Draco didn't want an exclusive relationship with her, she'd still been defined by her relationship with him. She felt undesirable then, unwanted. And wasn't it freaking _lovely_ that the man who made her feel like she was worth something—that someone wanted her—had made her feel the exact opposite when she realized that he no longer wanted her?

With Terry… Hermione didn't know who she'd been with Terry. Lost, she guessed. In a limbo somewhere as she tried to find a way to live a life devoid of Draco without losing her mind.

But now, without her cousin Melvin, or Harry and Ron, or Terry, or Draco, who was she?

Hermione didn't know.

Terry continued to speak to her, however she left the flat without responding.

She never went back there again.

- - - - - - - - -

They were back in the same position they'd started in, he sprawled out on his back with her on top of him, half lying his chest with one of her legs thrown across his waist. Hermione couldn't think of a more comfortable place to be. "You never answered my question."

"I didn't, did I?" He sounded as if he'd been falling back to sleep.

"You should be getting around to doing that now. This should be interesting—why the infamous Draco Malfoy doesn't like Valentine's Day."

He chuckled. "How about I distract you with my sexy body again?"

"Sorry, love, but I believe it was _me_ that distracted _you_ with my sexy body."

He snorted. "Yeah, right. But… if you're willing to go for a rematch—"

"That won't work on me, you git," she told him, cutting off the rest of his statement. "Who do you take me for? Some common broad who'll fall for your every charm?"

"You sure scream like one."

She pinched him, and he yelped. "For the sake of parts of your anatomy which are very dear to me, I'll pretend as though you didn't say that."

"Stop abusing me!"

"Then stop trying to distract me."

"Why does it matter anyway?"

"Why don't you want to tell me?"

He sighed dramatically. "Fine."

"Fine."

"I'll tell you."

"Then do it."

- - - - - - - -

Her divorce to Terry Boot took a grand total of one month, which, taking into consideration the six months they'd dated, made the total time she'd allowed herself to be drawn into some kind of relationship with him one full year. She nearly cried tears of joy when the judge announced they were officially divorced, and she was Hermione Granger once again.

Hermione Granger.

She'd been trying to figure out who that person was since she'd left Terry in her empty flat. Surprisingly, she'd gone to Tonks'. She'd accepted the invitation and cried freely on the woman's shoulder before Remus and the children had gotten home for the day. She'd stayed there for two weeks before finding a new place. The Lupins had welcomed her to stay longer, but Hermione needed to do this on her own. She really didn't know what she was doing, but she knew it was something that she had to do alone.

And it was hard, of course. Nothing in her life had ever been easy, and soul searching, by definition, was supposed to be hard. That was what it said in all the self-help books, at least. One thing she knew was this: she was Hermione Granger—an intelligent, successful woman who hadn't known exactly where she'd been before but was on the way to finding where she was going now.

Hermione began reconnecting with different people she'd lost touch with over the years. She and Tonks were talking regularly again, and after bumping into each other at Madame Malkin's, Luna had invited her out for drinks with Hannah Abbot and a few of the other girls who worked at _The Quibbler_. She'd gone out and had a good time. The girls had even gone with her shopping to decorate her new place. Luna had had some strange suggestions, but it'd been a wholly enjoyable outing.

She started running more often, dancing. Having all sorts of fun that she'd never had before. The best thing about it was that she didn't need to be with people to have fun. She was doing things all on her own, and she was loving it.

She started doing things for herself. A mani-pedi once a month, actually going to get her hair done by a professional, allowing a few girls from work to drag her away to a weekend spa retreat. She bought clothes and shoes on mere whims sometimes, and Hermione had never felt so open in her life.

She felt like a person. She felt like… herself.

Hermione hadn't dated in the month since her divorce, though not for lack of opportunity. Seamus Finnegan had asked her to dinner a week ago and she'd declined. He was interested in starting a serious relationship with her, and he'd made his intentions clear. He took her refusal as a sign that she wasn't ready to get into a new relationship yet and told her that he was willing to go slow. She'd told him that wasn't the problem.

She'd just gotten out of a bad relationship and was trying to discover what she wanted for her life. So she was alone, and happy, but at the same time she was lonely too. Tonks told her that constantly having a man in her life would have that affect on her now that she no longer did.

The loneliness became more bearable as time passed, and Hermione truly came to believe she didn't need a man in her life right now anyway. She still wanted the white picket fence and happily ever after, but that could wait.

If she wanted to have a man, and truly love him and be good to him, she had to be comfortable with being alone first.

Tonks had used more of her persuasive powers and had kept a tight lid on the pending divorce; however, there was no way to control the spread of information once it was finalized. News of the annulment was run in the tabloids for three weeks straight.

Hermione had been leaving her flat with a scarf and shades on since the story had first appeared in the papers. It stopped a lot of people from recognizing her, though some still did. Some pointed. She'd been accosted by reporters left and right for days, and she'd contemplated simply locking herself in her flat and throwing away the key until the whole thing blew over. She was coming out of Florish & Blotts when someone grabbed her arm. She'd been grabbed four times that afternoon by pushy reporters, and was so upset she was about to hex the hair off this next one.

"Listen, you," she started, taking out her wand and wiping around to face her assailant. Draco Malfoy was looking down at her with an expectant expression.

She almost dropped the books she'd just purchased in shock.

"D-draco," she stammered.

He tipped his head in greeting. "Granger."

She didn't say anything for a long moment. She was blushing, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. This was the first time she'd seen him since the night of their fight, and she took a moment to drink him in. He was still as handsome as she remembered, still as impeccably dressed. Still smelled the same, stood the same. And, she would've said he still looked at her the same, but he didn't. There was something else in his eyes, something frightened, insecure. She tried frantically to think of something to say, but could find nothing light enough—or _safe_ enough—to suit the situation. She settled on something simple, something stupid.

"Hi." She wanted to smack herself as soon as she said it.

He gave her a look that clearly said he wasn't impressed, and Hermione smiled. His slightly disdainful look was so familiar—so welcome after the long months without it—that something inside her warmed.

"Are you busy?" he asked her, the growing insecurity in his eyes mirroring her own.

"No, not particularly." She gave him an expectant look. What could he possibly want with _her_?

He sighed in what Hermione assumed was relief. "Good," he said easily, more surely. He took her parcel of books from her and began to lead her away by the hand that was still on her arm.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, confused. She had to walk quickly to keep up with him, and he slowed when he realized this.

"The Leakey Cauldron."

The Leakey Cauldron. "Why?"

He looked at her incredulously. "_Why? _Because we're going to have lunch, you bint."

- - - - - - - -

"My mother loved Valentines day," he was saying, his voice steady and deep. "She would plan huge banquets every year when I was a child, having the house elves prepare everyone's favorites. The dining room table sat sixteen, and it would be completely covered with food, just for the three of us."

"Must've been great for you, then."

"Not really."

"What do you mean?"

"We never got to eat anything."

"Why not?"

"My father."

"What about him?"

"We were waiting for him."

"Where would he be?"

She felt him shrug beneath her. "Not sure exactly. There used to be a brothel down Knockturn Alley back then, and there were rumors that he was sleeping with Lady Parkinson, so I can't be positive about it."

"Wait." She sat up and looked at him. "You mean to tell me that your father was having an _affair_?"

"_Affairs_, Granger, _affairs_. Emphasis on the 's'."

"And you knew about it?"

"Yes." His hand was on her hip, and he was staring at a birthmark near her navel, tracing it with his eyes, not looking at her.

"Did your _mother_ know about it?"

"Of course she did."

"And she… she didn't _say_ anything?"

"No."

"But why _not_?"

"What was there for her to say?" he asked her, finally raising his eyes to hers. "She loved him, and she knew that he loved her."

She looked away from his eyes, the situation hitting too close to home for comfort. "But he was _cheating_ on her," she whispered in outrage.

"Such is the state of pureblood marriages."

Hermione lay back down on his chest, not wanting him to watch as her blush continued to increase. "Did your father know what you mother had planned?"

"I don't think so. My mother always had the house elves clear away the meal if he wasn't home by eleven."

"Was he ever home by eleven?"

"No."

"Did… did _you_ ever tell him about it?" she asked quietly. This was dangerous ground she was treading upon, she knew; the topic of his father was always taboo. She half expected him not to answer.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't my place."

"What do you mean?"

"My mother did this for as long as I can remember. A part of her always hoped that something different would happen—that he would come home. He never did, and every time the clock struck eleven and the house elves cleared the dinner away, she would go into his office, sit in his chair, and cry. When I would go to her, she would tell me over and over again that it was okay, that she understood. _I_ never did, but she said that was okay too. The next morning, there would always be a package waiting for her at the breakfast table. Diamonds and roses and the newest, prettiest robes that my mother had ever seen. She would hug my father and smother him with kisses then, and over her head, my father would always wink at me, as if trying to tell me something that I never understood."

"Do you understand now?"

"No."

A few moments passed by in silence. "You never told me that before."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Why are _you_ sorry?"

"Because you had to witness that."

He shook his head. "_I'm_ sorry. I witnessed that—knew what it did to a woman—to my own _mother_—and still did it to you."

"It's okay," she told him quietly.

"Is it?"

Minutes went by before Hermione whispered "yes" into the quiet of the room. And, in that one moment, it felt as if everything changed. After more than a year of trying and waiting, everything was fresh and highlighted. She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest, and for a moment, it was hard for her to breathe. But, then, she could breathe again. And the world had never been such a wonderful place.

- - - - - - - -

The papers would run stories about her lunch with Draco Malfoy in The Leaky Cauldron for weeks. The conversation hadn't exactly been smooth sailing, and they had let their emotions get the better of them on more than one occasion.

It was a long, embarrassing talk. He called her a bitch, she called him an arsehole, and they glared at each other more than once.

She'd never been so happy to argue with someone in all her life.

Even when they hit rough patches, and she was about to cry, she was happy that she was doing this—going _through_ this—with him.

And whenever she got choked up in explaining her relationship with her ex-husband, and why she'd kept everything from him, he'd grab her hand, rub soothing circles on her palm until she calmed and could continue once more with her story. It didn't matter what name she had just called him before, or what furry rodent she'd compared him too. He was there for her through the hard parts, the dark parts.

They talked about _everything_.

She apologized for always using him.

He apologized for sleeping around.

She apologized for not telling him that he hurt her.

She apologized for avoiding him those six months she was married.

He apologized for not telling her sooner that she had hurt him.

He apologized for his short temper; for the yelling, the name-calling, and not listening to anything that she said.

She apologized for always expecting him to fix her problems, and for going to him that night expecting something from him even though she'd completely excluded him from her life for months.

He apologized for not going after her, for not coming to her sooner.

She thanked him for not going after her, for giving her space.

She told him that she missed him.

He told her that he missed her more—that he'd been missing her for longer.

She told him that _that_ was impossible; that, if anything, _she_ had missed _him_ more.

They argued about who had missed whom more for a few minutes.

They agreed that they were both stupid, and both sorry. And that they both had missed each other equally.

They agreed that they should never stop talking again—that they should never stop seeing each other again. In a purely platonic sense, of course. She added that last part. He merely stared at her and nodded his head.

They talked and laughed with each other for the rest of the night, catching up on the goings on in each others lives—Hermione's promotion to Deputy Mistress of Muggle Relations and the deal Draco had struck for the import of something to do with brooms with the Americans. They talked about Hogwarts and Uni and France, carefully avoiding talking of their relationship. They told each other stories of things that had happened to them while they hadn't been talking, and things that had made them cry while they were apart suddenly made them laugh uproariously now that they were together again.

It was after one when the two actually took notice of how long they'd spent speaking. She now lived in a chic flat not far from Diagon Alley, and he offered to walk her home. They continued to talk and laugh during the walk, and sat on the stoop in front of her flat so they could continue their conversation. It was half past two when she first attempted to disengage herself from the conversation; another hour passed before she actually did.

Draco walked her up three flights of stairs to her apartment, and she didn't think he'd ever hugged her quite as tight as he had then. She hugged him back equally tight in turn, and they must have stood there for minutes—or hours even—just holding each other.

She tried to pull away after awhile, but he wouldn't let her. She realized then that his shoulders were shaking, and shock made her go completely rigid.

"Draco?" she called to him tentatively.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

And then she was crying too.

- - - - - - - -

"I think you're afraid of me."

"_What?"_

"Must we play this game of repetition? I _know_ you heard me."

"Yes, well, pardon me if I think I'm hearing things. Because really, the man _I_ know as Draco Malfoy has never said anything quite so foolish to me in all the years I've known him."

"Stop trying to be funny."

"I _am_ funny," she told him.

"You _think_ you're funny."

"Why are you always laughing at the things I say then?"

"Because you're idealistic and stupid. And I find your complete and utter seriousness amusing."

She smacked his shoulder. "I think _you_ should stop trying to be funny now…"

"But I _am_—"

"Shut up."

"I still think you're afraid of me."

"Why?"

"Come on, Granger. I've known you for what? Fifteen, sixteen years? You trust me with everything except this."

"That doesn't mean I'm afraid of you."

"It does. You're afraid I'll hurt you again."

- - - - - - - -

He was kissing her, her back against the door and his hand cupping her bum.

The tears seemed to just roll out the red carpet for _this_. He'd touched her face for what she assumed was to wipe her tears, but had kissed her instead. Things had quickly gotten out of hand.

Familiar sensations rushed through her, setting off sparks inside her heart and making her soul practically explode. And fuck, why was it that you never truly knew how much you missed something until you got it back again? She tried to remember which pocket her keys were in, needing so bad to open the door and get them inside the house.

They hadn't slept together in years. The last time had been while they were living together and bloody hell, that had been almost two years ago.

She needed this, to feel him and live him and breathe him and just to—

But, wait.

What was she doing? She pulled away from him, and his lips moved immediately to that _spot_ on her neck. Her resolve momentarily faltered before she regained control.

"Draco—"

He didn't answer and she called him again.

"What?" It was more of a grunt than an actual word.

"Draco, stop."

He didn't stop, and she didn't think he'd heard her.

She put her hands on his head and pulled it up so they were face to face.

His eyes were wide and he was breathing heavy, and neither of them said anything for a while. She could see the tear tracks on his cheeks. She touched them gingerly with her fingers.

"Stop," she whispered.

- - - - - - - -

"I'm not afraid of you."

"I don't believe you."

- - - - - - - -

This couldn't happen.

He didn't look at her as she told him this. He leaned against the wall next to her as she talked, his head bent and eyes cast down to the floor.

She could not—_would_ not—get into a relationship like this with him again. They were supposed to be friends above all else, and friends didn't shag friends. It messed with the flow of things, and had already left their relationship discombobulated in ways they didn't even know things could _be_ discombobulated. If he wanted to have a place in her life at all, it would have to be as her friend—_only_ her friend.

He didn't agree, but he nodded his head anyway. He didn't have much choice.

She hugged him again, rocking back and forth with him as she told herself that she absolutely would _not_ cry again. She did, and he'd kissed her tears away before bidding her a goodnight and leaving.

She'd never found it quite so hard to watch someone walk away.

She had a horrid night, trying to get at least two consecutive hours of sleep and failing miserably. She flooed in sick to work as soon as she woke up. She hadn't been in bed five minutes before there was a knock at her door. She managed to drag herself out of bed and opened the door for none other than the man who'd gotten her into such a state to begin with.

He was freshly washed and groomed. And smiling. She wanted to hit him.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he told her merrily, stepping past her and into her flat. He made a low whistle as he took in the décor. "Whoa, Granger. Nice."

Hermione closed the door behind him, a most bemused expression on her face as she followed him from the sitting room and into the kitchen where he put down the bag he'd been carrying.

"What are you doing?"

He was unpacking the bag now, and he looked up at her when she asked. "Making you breakfast."

"Making me…" She watched as he continued to unpack the bag. He took out eggs, cheese, milk, bagels, and an assortment of other breakfast foods.

"Yes, breakfast." He unpacked a jar of apricot jam, and she snatched it from him greedily.

"Sweet Merlin, I love you," she whispered. The room got very quiet, and she looked up at him confused, not realizing what she'd said until she saw the expression on his face. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He shook his head. "I knew you would like that."

"It's my favorite. You know that."

He shrugged, and continued unpacking the bag. "Some things never change."

Oh, how true was _that_. "Why are you doing all this?"

He was going through her cabinets now, muttering about a frying pan. She went into the one beneath the sink and got it for him.

"Thank you."

She nodded.

"I'm doing it because I'm your friend."

"My friend?" she repeated, not quite convinced.

He flashed her a grin. "Yes. Isn't this a 'friend' thing to do?"

- - - - - - - -

"Tell me why you think I'm afraid of you."

"Why?"

"Because I want to know."

"I thought it was apparent."

"Well, obviously it isn't, because I'm asking you. Tell me so I can prove you wrong."

"I don't know, Granger. It's a long and boring story about a guy and a girl who botch up everything that has to do with their relationship."

She laughed. "Hey, I think I know that story…"

"Ah, so you know why the girl is afraid of the guy, then."

"She's not afraid of him."

"So says the girl. The guy thinks differently."

"The guy shouldn't try to tell the girl how she feels."

"The guy would never!"

"The girl is not afraid of the guy."

"Really?" He was unconvinced. "And how do you know this?"

"She told me so. She loves him." He didn't say anything. "You know that, don't you?"

He was very, very quiet.

"I want to know how this story ends," he said.

- - - - - - - -

Hermione pushed her plate away from her, an unpleasant expression on her face. "The eggs are horrible, Draco."

"They are."

"But you're _eating_ them."

He shrugged. "I'm used to my cooking."

She watched him to continue eat his eggs and read the paper, astounded. "Well, what do you make that's edible?"

He pointed to the toast.

- - - - - - - -

"You never told me why you think I'm afraid of you."

"_You_ never told _me_ how the story ends."

"Stop avoiding my questions."

"It's a long story."

"You know what I think?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

She rolled her eyes. "I think the _guy_ is afraid of the _girl_."

"_What?"_

"Oh, please let's not start this again."

"I—I mean, _the guy_—is _not_ afraid of the girl!"

"He is."

"What on earth would make you think that?"

"Because he hasn't asked the girl to be with him again."

There was another pause. There had been way too many of those this morning. Hermione held her breath, her heart rate increasing as she waited for him to respond.

"The guy…" His voice cracked. "The guy didn't think he needed to."

"Is that so?"

"The guy thought the girl knew exactly what he wanted, and that he was willing to wait for her for as long as it took. How was the guy supposed to know when the girl was ready?"

"Well, maybe the guy should ask her again to see."

"Hermione—"

She sat up then, her face looming not a foot from his as she stared into his eyes. "The girl wants what the guy wants, Draco. _I_ want what _you_ want. I always have. I've just been so—"

"Silly, insane? Bloody infuriating?"

"—scared.

"I thought you said you weren't afraid of me."

"I'm not," she said, looking away. "I'm afraid of _me_."

There was yet another pause, and it wasn't until Draco cupped her cheek that she looked at him. "Don't be afraid," he told her.

"I can't help it," she whispered, adverting her eyes again. "It's _me_, Draco. It's _us_. I… I just—"

"Shhh." He gently brought her face down to his and lightly kissed her lips. "You don't have to be afraid."

She closed her eyes when he kissed her again.

- - - - - - - -

"Mmm…" Hermione hummed in contentment, munching happily on her bread.

"Good toast?" he asked her.

She snorted. "Good _jam_."

- - - - - - - - -

And, once again, they were back in the position they'd started in. "We should go back to sleep," Hermione said.

"Are you serious?"

"I am."

"_Now?"_

"Why not? We have time."

"It's late."

"How late?"

"It's ten after eight."

Hermione sat up then, looking to the clock on the bedside table. He was a liar. It was _fourteen_ after eight. She looked down at him. He was staring at her, a half smile on his lips as he waited for her to do something. To get up, she supposed, her head tilted to the side in thought.

She lay back down next to him, half atop him once more.

"Granger?" he asked, obviously confused.

"Hmm?"

"It's ten after eight. Remember?"

"It's _fourteen_ after eight."

He snorted. "Getting up, then?"

He'd said the same exact thing earlier that morning. She smiled. "No."

"We're already late," he told her.

She hummed in agreement, turning her head and placing a kiss on the hollow of his throat. "Then we'll be late."

"Really?"

"Yes." She looked into his eyes, brushing his bangs away from his face as she smiled. "I want to spend the day with you."

- - - - - - - -

_-fin_

**End Note:** I like to think that this story has a very subtle ending, like many of my other stories. It does not offer much closure, but I don't think that there's closure in life. Concrete, life-altering decisions aren't decided all at once. Things usually happen far more slowly, and sometimes, words aren't truly needed to express how, or the reasons why. Because "I want to spend the day with you" says it all, I think.

I look forward to your comments.


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